


What Stays and What Fades Away

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Injury, Kidnapping, Lack of Communication, M/M, Not Wayward Son Compliant, POV Alternating, POV Penelope Bunce, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 1: Carry On, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tags Contain Spoilers, Written Pre-Wayward Son, carry on mini bang, this WILL end in flames...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 19:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20698853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: I’m not keen on bringing Snow to the club. He hasn’t been in what seems like a lifetime. Back then, he would occasionally bumble in with Wellbelove. Or he’d stride in alongside the Mage, trying to look all tough, while the Mage’s Men made the rounds like bloody inquisitioners.There will be magic, of course. More magic than he’s seen in months.Then there’s the matter of the Mage’s Men....A number of them are from decent bloodlines. After the Mage’s atrocities came to light, a few crawled back to the club with their tails between their legs and desperately tried to reintegrate themselves into the society they once derided and terrorized.While I’m comfortable enough discounting their very existences, I know Snow isn’t going to be so capable.Simon has a list of things that have changed since Christmas. The Mage is at the bottom, buried, untouched.Baz has a throat clogged up with feelings he can't articulate. They're a burden, not just for himself.They're both struggling with fullness and emptiness in equal, confusing turns. They're both hurting.And there are some people who want them to hurt even more.





	What Stays and What Fades Away

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the Carry On Mini Bang, and it wound up being not very "mini" at all...!  
Huge thanks to my Mini Bang partner, Tox, who helped significantly with the inspiration for this story—and for the absolutely stunning artwork they created!  
Go follow Tox on Instagram! [@tox_tea](https://www.instagram.com/tox_tea/)  
Another massive thank you to [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) (@carryonsimoncarryonbaz on tumblr) for the beta work. Her editing and support is a balm for my soul.  
And finally, thanks to my husband, Simon, for his patience and feedback while I was still working out the knots. He sometimes offered up solutions and other times he just let me talk myself in circles until I found the solution on my own.  
Title from ["No Light, No Light" by Florence + The Machine](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Tg2aW6Qfh9fYoUbDgYDXL?si=FG0HbeeiTr2ogi7V_sPk7A).

BOOK ONE

SIMON

Everything’s different since Christmas. For so many reasons. For so many people.

I’ve got a list. Using one now is probably simplifying things too much, but it’s been helpful for organizing my thoughts. Helpful with wrapping my head around it all.

**No. 1— I’ve lost my magic**

This one’s the hardest to think about, and the most life-altering. I was always a shite mage, I know that. (Everyone knows that.) Still, magic felt good and right and no one loved magic like I did. No—_loves_. Not past tense. Just because I can’t feel it any more doesn’t mean I don’t still love it.

And I’ve got wings and a tail. They’re cool, I guess. Real inconvenient. I can’t leave the house unless Penny or Baz spell them invisible. And they’re always getting in the way of things.

At first, my magic and my new appendages were two different entries. I combined them because they’re so linked. Thoughts about one can’t happen without thoughts of the other. _‘Exclusively mutual,’_ Baz would say. I quote Baz in my head these days more often than I quote Penny.

That’s a new thing, too.

**No. 2—Baz**

Everything about him is different. Or how I perceive him, rather. Perceive _us_. We’re not enemies any more. He’s not a villain. We’re dating, even.

I try to think about this one a lot. That’s not hard—Baz usually occupies most of my thoughts. (It’s pretty stupid, in hindsight, that it took me so long to realize _why_ I’m obsessed with him.) This is my favourite item on my list.

Except for when he’s being an arse. But sometimes even then.

It is weird, though, dating Baz as opposed to fighting with him. We spent the first few months only seeing each other when he could get away from Watford. We’d sit in the Bunce living room and hold hands and not say much. Summer’s been better, now that he’s graduated and in London. There’s more time and more snogging.

Though still not a lot of talking.

**No. 3—Leaving Watford**

Penny and I weren’t able to finish our year. I wasn’t able to graduate with her and Baz. Wasn’t able to finish up the year being his roommate.

I’m not sure how I feel about this entry overall. Some days, it crushes me. Those are the days when I feel guilty that Penny got dragged through all of this crap because of me.

‘_I wanted to, Simon,’_ she always tells me._ ‘And besides, eighth year is optional.’_

She’s always done well at keeping me grounded. Just wish I didn’t make her need to repeat herself so often.

**No. 4—Penny's my roommate**

It's something we always talked about, but honestly, I didn't think it would really happen. Didn't think I'd live long enough, for one.

I love being Penny's roommate, I do. I can't help feeling like I’m a burden on her, though. She has to deal with me when I fall into a funk. And she feels awkward using magic around me. In fact, she hardly uses magic at all. (Same with Baz.)

It’s so bloody uncomfortable. Always tiptoeing around me. It makes me wish I could blow off steam by letting my magic flare-up, but that's not an option any more, is it?

It’s more draining than going off.

**No. 5—The Mage is dead**

Maybe that shouldn’t be the last entry on the list. It’s world-shattering in a lot of different ways.

It also feels really far off—like it’s something that’s only affecting everyone else, and not me directly.

I know that’s not true. I know I lost my mentor and the only father figure I had. I know Pen and Baz and I were on trial for his death. I know I won’t be joining the Mage’s Men like I’d always hoped.

Still, I don’t really know what to think about this one. So I don’t.

* * *

My therapist says my list is okay, and that having the Mage at the bottom is okay, too. It’s compartmentalizing. It’s how I process stuff—boxing it up and pushing it away until I’m finally ready to deal with it.

I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to really think about the Mage’s death. I spent most of the trials in a stupor. Baz held my hand through all of it. I only really snapped to attention when most of the blame got shifted to Penny. I got really passionate about that. Thankfully, the spell she used was deemed as an act of self-defence that only accidentally turned deadly.

Otherwise, it's all a blur.

* * *

Most days, it's easy to just...exist. I wake up in my little flat, I greet my best friend/flatmate, I send a good morning text to my boyfriend, I make breakfast. I start the day. A perfectly Normal, normal day.

I go to my part-time gig at a bakery (I don’t need the money—the leprechaun gold’s been treating me fine—it’s more to have something that gets me out of the house). I do some reading, to prep for uni (minimally).

I watch Netflix. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Penny. Usually with Baz.

I go on dates—_we_ go on dates.

Dinner. Bedtime routine.

Rinse. Repeat.

It’s good. It’s what I always wanted. Not the _way_ I wanted it, but that’s not the important part.

Life is calm and simple and safe.

I should be happier than I am.

Instead, I only feel empty.

* * *

Today's one of the bad days.

Penny's just got in from work and is yammering about something that happened. I'm trying to pay attention, but my brain's been feeling all pinched and foggy since I dragged myself home after a rough day at work, the guilt of messing up a client’s special order weighing on me. We're in our little kitchen, and I'm attempting to heat up some blood in a saucepan on the hob. Baz is due any minute. He always makes a big fuss when I do this for him—he never wants to hear that I _want_ to do it for him.

And then Penny's remembering these little string lights I picked up on a whim one day last week, then never bothered to do anything with. So she starts questioning me about them:_ Do you want to put them up? Do you want help? Where? Do you want me to do it?_

And then there's the tell-tale _rat-a-tat_ of Baz's knock on the front door. And I'm trying to tell Penny to get it, so the blood doesn't get burnt, but she's already tearing into the packaging of the lights. So, I rush to get the door, and Baz is standing there, arms full of takeaway as a surprise. And I can't even enjoy it yet, because I can't leave the stove for that long. I rush back, and Baz makes some snarky comment about not even getting a thank you (_'basic common courtesy, I thought'_), and then I'm snapping something at him from the kitchen. I don’t even know what I said—something needlessly tetchy. Penny’s interrupting us immediately, asking for Baz’s help with the lights.

“I would, Bunce,” Baz is saying, “but Snow’s left me with my hands full.”

“Piss off,” I’m barking. “You have super-strength.”

But even so, I’m heading for him again and snatching the food from his arms. He’s grinning and leaning in for a kiss, and Penny’s making a retching sound from the living room as I give him a quick peck.

I’m trying to scurry off again, but Penny’s calling to me, wants me to agree with her light-placing plans. And then I’m giving her the quickest answer I can, darting around Baz, trying to get back to the stove. I know he can smell it, because he’s commenting on it without even entering the kitchen: _‘you’re stinking up the whole flat with that.’ _And it’s as I get close enough I’m realizing, fuck, yeah, it well stinks, doesn’t it? Because it’s fucking burning at the bottom. Because of course it is. Because of course I couldn’t even manage to do this one thing, because—

“Simon,” Penny’s calling again, “can you tell me if this is straight?”

And I think Baz is making a joke, because I can hear the smile in his voice, but the words aren’t coming through. Nothing’s coming through the fog except for the red hot anger creeping up my neck.

And I just—

I go off.

BAZ

“Could you both just _fucking stop_ for a minute?!”

Snow’s bellowing causes Bunce and myself to nearly leap out of our skins. We gape at his back through the doorway to the kitchen.

“You’re mages! Penny, spell the fucking lights in place, I don’t care where! Baz, you’re a vampire, I don’t need to help you carry shit! Just—! _Fuck_! Just…!”

I’m striding into the kitchen before he’s finished his tirade. Snow flinches as I come up beside him to turn off the hob and remove the saucepan from the heat. He ducks his head away from me, hunching in on himself.

It’s been eight months, and I still have a hard time knowing when Snow’s about to fly off the handle. It used to be so pathetically easy—the smoky stench of his magic made all of Snow’s emotions so transparent. Now, I don’t know how to gauge him. Or how to help.

“You guys don’t—” Snow’s voice is softer, strained and uneven. “I can’t—”

I was never good at consoling Snow; I made it my business to be the exact opposite of consoling. I urged him to go off, time and again.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t _want_ to console him. How many times did I ache to pull him aside, away from the rest of the world, and murmur comforting nonsense to him until the smoke cleared?

“You don’t have to have a fit about it,” is what comes out of my mouth instead.

Snow growls weakly.

I take a breath and tell myself to try again. When I touch my hand to the small of Snow’s back, he flinches and jumps away from me, wings billowing out and nearly knocking the food off the table. We both stare at each other in surprise.

Far too many emotions flash across Snow’s face in that single second: anger and hurt and confusion and shame—

Then he’s gone, storming to the other end of the flat and closing himself up in his room.

Bunce enters the kitchen and gives me a grim look.

* * *

I give Snow time to cool off on his own, mostly so I don’t make things worse. I try the blood he prepared for me. It sits like lead in my stomach, and I’m certain it’s not because it got a touch burnt. I discard the rest.

Bunce and I split up the takeaway onto three plates while skirting around the issue at hand. I’ve come to appreciate—enjoy, even—Bunce’s friendship, however that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable discussing personal matters with her. Obviously, it’s more Snow’s personal matter than mine, but I am his boyfriend, and when he’s snippy at me or simply snippy with the world, my inner workings are as tangled up in the solution as his own. I can only handle hearing Bunce urge me to talk about my feelings so many times before I want to throttle her.

I carry two plates down the short hall to Snow’s room. I hesitate, then knock.

The wait feels endless, but eventually I hear Snow’s muffled, _‘come in’_, so I do.

Predictably, his eyes go to the food right away. He looks a touch relieved—he also looks like he’s been holding back tears. I frown.

Neither one of us say anything as I close the door behind me with my foot and come towards his bed. I hand him one of the plates (the one with a Snow-appropriate heaping of tikka masala) and set the other (with a far more modest portion) onto his bedside table. The silence continues, even as I perch myself on the edge of his bed. I stare at him; Snow stares at his food.

I watch the bob of his throat as he swallows around his discomfort. He finally opens his mouth. I’m not sure if it’s to speak or to eat until he finally gets the word out: “Sorry.”

Some of my tension dissipates.

“Do you want to explain what that was about?”

Snow shoves a spoonful into his mouth and shrugs. I don’t take my eyes off him, merely watching him eat for a few minutes. He still approaches meals with the same gusto and incivility. I don’t know what I’d do if he didn’t.

After shovelling in a good third of his plate, his eyes finally drift towards my own meal, untouched.

“Did you...um....” Snow screws up his mouth and flicks his eyes to me. “Did you drink?” I nod, and the furrow in his brow deepens. “Was it—”

“It was fine,” I assure. “You don’t need to do it if it gets you in such a snit. I keep telling you I can take care of it myself.”

Snow clacks his spoon against his plate in agitation. “And I keep telling _you_ that I want to. Why do you—? Why can’t you—?”

I curl my lip and only just manage to hold back from telling him to spit it out already. He growls—he knows I’m thinking it.

“I’m the one that’s changed,” he finally gets out. “So, why do you and Penny keep acting like different people? Just use your magic like before! I’m sick of everything being so—_ugh!_ It’s all just— It’s all eggshells, all the time!”

“We’re not at Watford any more.” I’m careful to keep my tone in check. “We’re in the Normal world. Bunce and I need to do things without magic now.”

“Not always! Not here!”

“It’s good practice.”

“It’s fucking depressing, is what it is,” Snow laments. “You’re all just shuffling around, feeling sorry for me!”

“Yes!” I snap. “We are.”

“Well, stop it!” Snow’s wings flutter and he whacks his spoon again, spraying curry sauce everywhere.

I snarl and drop my wand from up my sleeve. I **out, out, damn spot** the mess away and scowl at Snow all the while. “There, are you happy?”

“Yeah!” he barks. “I’d much rather that than all this hiding bullshit, Baz!”

I don’t know what to say to that. This is more than we’ve spoken in months—at least about anything meaningful, and not the banalities of who should have won the latest series of The Great British Bake Off. I busy myself with tucking my wand back in place.

Snow’s voice drops, but he’s no less irate. “I lived without magic for eleven years. And every summer after that. I already know how to get by without it. You two just make it harder on me when you treat it like a big deal.”

“It _is_ a big deal, Snow.”

“Sure! Fuck. Yeah, it is! But you don’t have to— Since when do you _coddle_ me, Baz?” Snow shoves his plate aside and glowers at me. “I don’t want your fucking pity!”

“I’m not going to act like it didn’t happen,” I spit. “Somehow I don’t think your therapist would agree with that coping method.”

“But that’s what you’re already doing!” Snow groans and pulls at his hair. “Acting like you’re not a mage. Like you’re not a fucking vampire! I’m broken; I’m not _delusional_.”

“You’re impossible,” I correct. I get to my feet and stare down my nose at him. “I don’t know how to deal with you when you’re like this.”

“Great,” Snow scoffs. “That’s fucking swell. Real useful, Baz.”

“And there it is.” I hover over him, sneering and incensed for too many reasons, none of which I should be taking out on him. “That’s the real crux of the matter, isn’t it, Snow? You only see things for their usefulness, because all you’ve ever been treated like is a tool. A tool for the Humdrum, a tool for the Mage. And now you have no idea what to do with yourself, so you spend your days catatonic, until you’ve saved up just enough energy to lash out at us for every little thing. Even when we’re trying to help you!”

Snow’s eyes are wide and wild. He looks moments away from bashing his skull up into my teeth, but I hold my ground. (It would be welcome, frankly.)

I expect him to roar, but when he next speaks, his voice is low and wavering with contempt:

“As if you’re not using me, too. As if I’m not some exercise in sympathy for you,”—my blood runs cold—“so that you can feel better about yourself and pretend you’re still human.”

Ah.

Slowly, I lean back from him. I feel frozen, bones and heart creaking as I pull away, as if distance might stop his words from sinking into my undead body. I can’t let him see me hurting. I know my face is blank—yet I’m only further stricken when I see Snow’s own face immediately twist with regret.

“Baz—”

My hand is up in an instant, cutting him off. Snow’s a stubborn fuck, so his jaw keeps working, even though he knows not to speak. There’s nothing he can say right now, even if he had the words.

“I’m leaving,” I say so very, very carefully. “Call me when you’ve pulled your head out of your arse.”

Only Bunce calls after me as I slam the door to their flat.

SIMON

I’m a fucking idiot.

I don’t know what came over me. That was such a stupid thing to say. I don’t even want to believe that I could _think_ something like that about Baz. I feel sick with guilt.

I spent so many years trying to convince myself that he’s a villain. I told myself so many awful things. No, not just myself—I told anyone who would listen.

The second I hear the door slam, an ugly sound bursts out of me. I press my face into my hands and another dry sob breaks free.

Penny’s at my door in a flash.

“Simon? What happened? Are you okay?”

I look up at Penny. She’s lingering over my bed, face pinched with concern and confusion.

“No, I—” I croak. “I fucked up, Pen.”

Penny curls her warm hands over my shoulders and leans into my space. “It’s all right, Simon. You two are great at fighting. You’ll be all right.”

It’s such a simple thing, but her touch and encouragement spread through my chest, and it makes my eyes water.

“Y-yeah. Yeah.” I rub at my face. I’m shaking. I haven’t cried in a long time. “I have to—I have to call him—”

Penny rushes over to my dresser nearby, where my phone is charging. She brings it back to me right away, pressing it into my hands. She gives me one of her classic _‘oh, Simon’_ smiles. It’s so normal. It’s comforting.

“Good luck,” she whispers. It’s not a spell, but it feels like one.

I sniffle and try to smile back.

Penny slips out of my room, closing my door behind her. I take a few moments to blow my nose and calm down.

I don’t like either one of them feeling sorry for me—I’m sick of it. So, I certainly can’t sit here feeling sorry for myself.

I take a deep breath and call Baz.

Dread runs through me as I listen to the line ring once, twice, three times—my tail lashes to the rhythm. Is he not going to pick up? He has to pick up. This is our first real fight since we started dating. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if he doesn’t pick up.

My heart leaps into my throat when I hear the line connect.

“That was fast,” Baz deadpans. “Pulled it out that quick, did you?”

“Yeah,” I choke out. I’m so relieved to hear his voice; I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. “Didn’t even need magic for it.”

I hear a huff of air from Baz’s side. It’s hard to tell if it’s a scoff or a chuckle. I’d be able to tell if he was here. He should be here—

“Come back,” I blurt. “Please, Baz.”

There’s silence. All I can hear for a long while is the pounding of my heart and the faint background noise from Baz’s side.

“…all right.”

* * *

In the few minutes it takes for Baz to come back, I nervously polish off my dinner. Then, I start pacing. My room’s not that big, but I’ve got a stretch of space between the bed and the dresser that’s been so well-travelled since we moved in, I’m sure to wear a groove into the wood flooring.

I stop pacing when I hear the front door open. He didn’t knock. Maybe he spelled himself in. I grin a bit.

Baz pushes open my bedroom door and fixes me with his gaze. “What are you smiling at?”

“You,” I admit. I smile even wider when Baz raises his eyebrow at me.

“Is all of this funny to you?” He closes my door and leans against it, obviously not up to crossing the space between us.

“I’m just really glad you came back.”

“I hope you have something good to say to me.”

I swallow. “Yeah. I mean. I have a lot to say, actually. So just. Just shut up for a while and listen, okay?”

Baz frowns. He takes a deep breath and waves me on with his hand.

Right, then.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, hanging my head. “That’s, well. That’s the biggest thing. I’m really—I’m really fucking sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t’ve made it sound like something bad. You know me—you know I’ve always been obsessed with you being a vampire. I get upset when you try to keep it hidden from me. Because we’re past that, yeah? I want you to be able to walk into my flat and ask me to fix you a drink and that be— and that be _fine_. I hate that you think so poorly of yourself because of it.” I start pacing again. “B-but when I got mad at you, some of my old feelings came up, and I— I just wanted to hurt you. So I used it against you, even though I—” I stop again, panicked. It’s hard to look him in the eye, but I do it. “Baz, I swear I don’t really think that.”

Baz stares at me. He’s giving me this one particular type of sneer that I never used to understand. It’s the one he tries to mask his pain with. I’ve caused him to make that face so many times. It’s one piece of our old lives that I could definitely do without.

“I fucked up,” I admit. “I’m a fuck up.”

Baz sighs. “You’re not a fuck up; you’re an idiot and a nightmare and a disaster. There’s a difference.” He frowns. “And that’s not me coddling you.”

I give a little wet laugh at that. “I’ll try to be…less. Of all that.”

“Not too much,” Baz says. “It’s a good deal of your charm, Snow. Like one of those stupid little dogs.”

I blink at him. “The ones where you can’t tell whether you want to help them or punt them?”

“Precisely.”

We tiredly smile at each other from across my room. I want to go to him, but I need to get more off my chest first. I still feel itchy all over, my irritation persisting just under my skin.

“And, um....” I tug at my hair and start up my pacing again, going in an uneasy circle. “You were right—I don’t know who I am, now that I’m not a hero.” My tail flicks around on its own. “Or a villain.”

“Snow—”

I keep going: “I’m broken. —Don’t look at me like that. I’m broken, Baz, and I need you to help me, not— not hide me away from everything I love. I have to face it—that’s what I do. I haven’t been, and that’s fucking me up more. Breaking me more.”

I take a deep breath.

“The Mage. He— he told me so. That I was broken. I don’t know what he meant—what he did, or…or what he was _going_ to do, but— but he said I was broken, and he was right.”

I continue pacing. It’s always six steps between my bed and my dresser, but the room feels like it’s getting smaller and smaller.

“It wasn’t.... That magic, i-it wasn’t mine. It was never supposed to be mine. I’m happy I gave it back. But, _fuck_, Baz, I miss it. I miss it so much. I should have never taken it, yeah, but I lost it all the same. And I....”

There’s a wave of sorrow drowning me from the inside, but I power through it, pacing, unable to look at Baz.

“I…I lost him, too. I don’t know how to— how to _deal_ with all of that.” I choke as the words creep up my throat. “I don’t know how to deal with missing him. I spent my first eleven years waiting for my life to start, and then it _did_. Every day was about being the Chosen One and going off on missions for the Mage and trying to— trying to make him proud of me. And, yeah—I don’t know what I am any more, without that. I’d never _had_ anything before that. Anything to lose.” I sniffle and swipe at the hot tears on my cheeks. “But…but I still have Penny. And I have you.”

I brave looking at Baz finally. He’s got his arms tightly folded, like he’s holding himself back. From me, I guess. He looks pissed and gutted at the same time.

“I like you, Baz,” I say, finally letting my pacing bring me closer to him. “I like that you’re a brat, and a powerful magician, and a vampire. So don’t…don’t start taking those things away. I don’t want to lose anything else. Baz, please. I don’t…I can’t lose you, too. Okay?”

Baz clears the space between us in two quick strides, and the next thing I know, he’s crushing me to him, one strong arm around my shoulders and the other circled around my ribs, just under my wings. I hook my fingers into the fabric of his shirt, hanging on tight. His cool cheek feels perfect against my own, chilling my feverish skin.

“You beautiful moron,” Baz croons into my ear. “You’re not going to lose me. Crowley, you’re so fucking dumb—you can’t say things like that. I’ll haunt you forever. You’ll never be able to get rid of me now, Simon.”

I press my nose against his collarbone. “Promise?”

“You won’t lose me. I swear it.”

I nudge back just enough so that I can look at Baz’s face. He still looks pissed as hell. This time, I’m confident it’s not aimed at me. At the world, maybe. At all the shit that’s hurt us and made it so hard to get to this exact moment.

Baz also looks like his heart’s trying to climb up his throat, which is how I’m feeling, too. My heart’s really been through the wringer this evening. This is the most emotion I’ve felt in the past few months—combined. Been so checked out, just going through the motions. The squeeze and ache I’m feeling in this moment are so different from the earlier churning of anger and guilt.

This is a _good_ feeling. It’s all-encompassing, filling me. It feels like a gift. Like healing.

I kiss him. For a long while. He tastes faintly like cigarettes. Maybe that’s the huff of air I heard on the phone earlier. Baz only smokes when he’s trying to hurt himself.

The thought makes me kiss him harder. I want to pour all my feelings into his mouth, so that he never doubts this. I may be broken and an idiot and a disaster, but this is the one thing I’m hell-bent on getting right, no matter what it takes.

When we finally pull back for air, Baz looks fucking smitten, so I think I’m doing a good job convincing him of my feelings. Providing a little extra insurance couldn’t hurt.

“Can you stay the night?”

“Oh, Snow,” he purrs, “I already told you: I’m not going anywhere.”

And then Baz spells the room soundproof, and I grin.

BOOK TWO

SIMON

I wake up with Baz in my arms, which is a fantastic way to start the day. I press my lips to his shoulder. He’s shirtless, but he doesn’t seem cold—probably because I’ve been crowding him all night. He makes even the hottest summer nights manageable.

Baz stirs and grumbles something. I smile against his skin. He’s really not a morning person.

I let Baz take his time waking up. I’m in no rush to get out of bed. I’m feeling pretty exhausted from everything yesterday—all the fighting…and all the making up.

There’s also this squirming, nagging sensation in the back of my mind. I’m trying to ignore it. It’s probably left over guilt from yesterday. There’s a lot to get hung up on, there. But we’re fine. It was cathartic. We were overdue for a good row, anyway. And I’m glad I got to get some of it off my chest. Especially—

Oh. That’s what the squirming feeling is. It’s my thoughts about the Mage.

I don’t want to think about it. I’ve still barely gotten my head around the first four things on my list. I’m not ready.

I’m not going to let the Mage ruin what progress I’ve made.

BAZ

This time, even without his magic stinking up the room, I can tell Snow’s gears are turning too hard. His tail is twitching about under the covers, the spade rasping against his itchy sheets.

I roll over in his arms and give him a petulant look. He blinks, like he’s surprised to see me for a moment, and then his face splits into a smile.

“Morning,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

He does, until he’s grinning too much to continue. I growl at him as he pulls away.

“Thought you didn’t like my morning breath,” he says.

“You think a lot of stupid things.”

Snow chuckles. He rolls us until he’s hovering over me on his elbows and knees. He gives me a quick kiss, and when he leans back, I know he’s baiting me to follow. He’s a menace. And he makes me unspeakably sentimental. As I lean up to kiss him, I lock my fingers in his hair and pull him back down to me.

We snog lazily, paying no attention to the time. We have no reason to rush—we have plans for lunch later, but if we happen to kiss our way all through the breakfast hours, I certainly won’t complain. (Though Snow likely will.)

Eventually, Snow pulls back, but not without a breathy sigh and a nudge of his nose against mine. It’s unbearably soft.

Snow sits up all the way. He stretches, arms to the ceiling, wings straight out—I drink in the sight of him. The morning sun filters through the patagia of his wings, casting the room in a red glow. He rolls his long neck around until it cracks. The whole scene is borderline pornographic.

“Sore?” I tease.

Snow gives me a sheepish grin. “Maybe a bit.”

“Worked you too hard last night, did I?”

His grin goes straight to cheeky. “I wonder if all vampires have that kind of stamina, or if you’re just needy.”

“It’s good for you. You’ve become a loafer in your retirement, Chosen One.” I pinch the plushness of his stomach that wasn’t there eight months ago—Snow yelps and bats at me.

“You’re a bully,” Snow says with the most charming smile. His eyes twinkle and everything. It’s torture.

“And you’re fucking gorgeous.” The words just fall out of me, but I don’t regret them.

“Belly and wings and all, hm?”

“You’re perfection,” I say. He looks bemused. “It doesn’t matter what you gain or what you lose,” I continue, “I’ll always like you far too much for my own good.”

“You sap,” he murmurs. But he’s the one who plucks up my hand and presses kisses to my knuckles.

“You’re perfect,” I insist, softer. “You’re resplendent. Crowley, look at you.”

Snow flaps his wings twice in response, making the light dance.

“Exactly. You look like a god.”

He laughs against my palm. “Fallen angel, if anything. I’m a failed super-villain, Baz.”

“Even better,” I say, hitching my eyebrow. “It’s unfairly hot.” Snow flutters his wings again, so I continue: “See? You glow like fire. It’s like we’re dancing in flames.”

Snow squeezes my hand and shakes his head, curls tumbling. “You’re a pyro,” he groans. “No more flames. I’m retired, remember? I’m done kissing you while everything else burns.”

“Too bad, love,” I say. “I’ll burn for you until it kills me.”

SIMON

Baz is impossible. Who knew he was such a romantic, deep down? Who knew I would _want_ that from him?

I kiss him for a long, long time after that. I kiss him until my jaw is sore and my stomach’s growling and my bladder’s ready to burst.

Then we get on with our day.

Penny doesn’t bring up the fight, thank snakes. Even though she’s already eaten, Baz magics us all some tea. I catch her shooting him a look about it, but Baz gives her this dismissive gesture, so she doesn’t press it. In fact, Baz is borderline wasteful with his magic all morning, like he’s trying to make up for lost time. Wanker.

Baz skips breakfast, since it’s already getting close to lunch time. I gripe at him about it, because he never got around to eating dinner last night, either. I eat his leftover tikka masala (and convince him to take a few bites).

We shower (separately—the bathroom’s too small for that, especially with my wings) and dress. Even without his entire arsenal of posh toiletries here, Baz still takes an absurd amount of time to get ready. I wait in the living room, chatting with Penny.

Turns out she heard bits and pieces of last night—before Baz put up the soundproofing spell, that is. I don’t need to fill her in on the argument as much as I feared. It’s pretty embarrassing to drag it all up.

We touch on the big points: I don’t want them to hide their magic from me, I said something shitty about Baz being a vampire, and I’ve still got hangups about being useful. And…about the Mage.

“I’m sorry,” Penny says, placing a hand on my knee. We’re facing each other on the couch, legs tucked up onto the cushions. “I didn’t want to rub magic in your face.”

I shake my head. “You wouldn’t. I know a lot’s changed, Pen, but I don’t want to be treated like a trauma victim forever.” She squeezes my knee. “I don’t know how to move on, or— or heal. I’ve been thinking, you know, that it feels like I’m a house after an electrical fire. You can fix it up and fill it with new things, but all of that would be pretty hard to do if you don’t ever want to expose the house to electricity ever again—the world runs on it. It’s not— it’s not the electricity’s fault. It’s just…faulty wiring.” I rub at my hair. “Maybe that doesn’t make sense. I know I can’t get my magic back—I know I can’t get rewired. I don’t know what I’m saying—”

Penny laughs and gives my knee a pat. “No, I’m following, it’s okay. It’s a good analogy, Simon.”

“Thanks.”

We hug after that. I’m better at hugs than I was, so at least I’m improving at something.

Eventually, Penny spells my wings and tail away, and Baz and I hit the road.

“Where to?” he asks while pulling the car out of its spot.

“How about the club?”

Baz raises his eyebrow, but keeps his gaze focused on the task at hand.

“You still go sometimes, right?” I say.

He does—though he doesn’t talk about it. Just another piece of a magician’s life that we’ve been skirting around.

I suggested it once. Baz shut me down. _‘You don’t actually want to go to the club, Snow,’_ he said, because he insists he knows what I want better than I do. (And, well, sometimes he _does_, though I hate to admit it.)

“Some,” he admits slowly. “For tennis, or lunch. I have to make my appearances.”

“Right.” I watch his profile as he drives. He’s frowning. “So, let’s go make an appearance.”

“Snow, you don’t—” Baz purses his lips, then tries again: “Do you really want to go to the club?”

I grin. “Yeah.” I grin wider. “Yeah, I do.”

Baz darts his eyes to me. “You look like a loon.”

“I’m happy.”

“The food’s not _that_ good, Snow.”

It’s not about the food.

BAZ

I’m not keen on bringing Snow to the club. He hasn’t been in what seems like a lifetime. Back then, he would occasionally bumble in with Wellbelove. Or he’d stride in alongside the Mage, trying to look all tough, while the Mage’s Men made the rounds like bloody inquisitioners.

I obviously wasn’t always there when Snow arrived. But gossip of the Chosen One’s attendance spread easily. I’d relish in the stories of his many social faux pas—it was brilliant entertainment.

Snow forgetting to put his napkin on his lap is the least of my concerns right now, though.

He’s made zero appearances in the magical world since the trials, the leavers ball notwithstanding. I kept Snow entirely to myself that night. I know that won’t be an option today.

There will be magic, of course. More magic than he’s seen in months. And they’re going to gawk at him. Some might be uncouth enough to bombard him with questions.

Then there’s the matter of the Mage’s Men....

A number of them are from decent bloodlines. After the Mage’s atrocities came to light, a few crawled back to the club with their tails between their legs and desperately tried to reintegrate themselves into the society they once derided and terrorized.

The few times I’ve been, I’ve done my best to ignore them, despite their spiteful glances towards me. The Mage is dead and his ex-cronies mean nothing to me—I refuse to give them my time. (Though, once they were particularly insufferable, and I complained to Fiona about it after over Facetime, and we had a long _‘may the Mage rot in hell’_ bitch-fest until we were both completely sozzled.)

While I’m comfortable enough discounting their very existences, I know Snow isn’t going to be so capable. I don’t want him seeing them. I don’t want them talking with him—whether it be to pity him or praise him, I don’t care. Or, Merlin forbid, actually attempting to commiserate with him. They’ve the audacity for it.

I grip the steering wheel too tight all the way to the club, but Snow either doesn’t notice or is smart enough not to comment. He keeps the conversation light, and I manage to follow along.

Once there, I hesitate in the car park. I brush off Snow’s tee shirt and smooth my hands along the wrinkles over his stomach. He slouches, hands stuffed into the pockets of his joggers, and he gives me a rueful smile.

“Should have dressed nicer, I guess,” he says. “Am I going to embarrass you?”

I scowl. “Of course you are; you’re Simon Snow.” I pull his hand out of his pocket and twine our fingers together. “Still, even with stains on your shirt, we’re going to be the best looking lot in there.”

“Oi, there’s no stains on this one.”

I give his hand a tug as I step back. “You’re ready?”

“Yeah.” Snow stands up straighter and squeezes my hand. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

So…we go.

* * *

I drop Snow’s hand once we get inside, and I keep a respectable distance. No one’s been brazen enough to ask me directly about my relationship with the saviour of the World of Mages, but our quiet intimacy during the trials quickly made laps in the gossip circuits.

I’ve no doubt they’ll be so bold as to ask Snow, however.

I’ll let him field it how it likes. Obviously I’d be a fool to deny my relationship with Snow, but I’d understand if he felt differently. While we (eventually) tackled the hurdles of intimacy, Snow is still rather pathetically naive about his sexuality. If he’s not ready to admit to the magickal world that he’s dating a bloke, then so be it.

I lead him to the luncheon buffet straight away.

“Make yourself up a plate,” I tell him. “I’ll go say some hellos.”

Snow furrows his brow at me. “You’re leaving me already? I thought this was a lunch date.”

“It is.” I barely resist rolling my eyes. “I just need to give a few greetings before tucking in. It was your idea to come here,” I remind.

“Ugh. Fine. I’m not getting you food,” he grumps.

I slip off to make my rounds. I can feel the way everyone’s eyes keep darting to me—though they spend most of their time gaping at Snow. Even without that heady stench of magic around him, he still takes over any room he enters. Simon Snow, the breathtakingly gorgeous hero who’s too idiotic to realize how highly revered he is, even now.

I get roped into a conversation with Dev’s mother and her friends. They ask me a dozen boring questions about my plans for university, even though I’ve already had this conversation with them at least twice over by now. They tell me all about their own childrens’ plans, as if I don’t already know. It’s all a formality. What they’re really hoping is that if they glance over at Snow often enough, and keep me talking long enough, I’ll somehow divulge something.

I do no such thing. Though I’m certain they don’t fail to notice the way my own gaze keeps drifting over to Simon.

He’s got a ludicrous pile of roast beef on his plate, along with roasted potatoes and bread—and nary a vegetable in sight. He’s sitting at fairly empty table. Only Dr. Wellbelove is bold enough to have joined him. Good. I’ll let them catch up.

I’m dragged along into another round of tedious questioning, this time by a gaggle of Watford alumni. They’re all a-titter about my having brought Snow for lunch—well, all except for Philippa Stainton, who is standing off to the side and looking rather put out. She doesn't say a thing (obviously). Her friends, however, are perfectly comfortable making indecorous comments about my relationship with Snow—they all saw us dance and kiss at the Ball.

I am, admittedly, a vain man, so I allow myself to revel in their comments over what an attractive couple we are, even though I’m not so unabashed as to confirm any such thing. I get a bit swept up in it, truthfully.

By the time I glance back at Snow, someone else has taken Dr. Wellbelove’s place. My stomach clenches at the sight. It’s one of the Mages old henchmen, Noah Bailey (if I’ve bothered to recall correctly). He’s a greasy, snobbish thing, with an upturned nose to perfectly polish off the look.

I excuse myself from my old classmates as quickly as I can, but before I can manage to extricate myself entirely, Snow’s pushed himself away from his table (and from Bailey) and stalked off.

Fuck.

SIMON

Baz is a prick for leaving me alone, but I’m not too cheesed off. I knew he’d have to spend most of lunch talking to people. I’d just hoped he could get some food in him first.

I make him up a plate, even though I said I wouldn’t. He still doesn’t like to eat in front of people—he’s gotten a lot better about it, though. (On my insistence. I’m not about to go out to dinner and be the only one eating.)

I put the softer options on his plate, things that don’t require a lot of gnawing. Then I find a quiet spot to sit.

Dr. Wellbelove joins me soon enough. It’s really good to see him, honestly. He’s the closest thing to family I’ve got, even though things with Agatha didn’t work out. He still calls me ‘son’. That really— Well. It really gets to me. In a good way.

We catch each other up on things since we last spoke. I show him pictures of the flat I share with Penny. He shows me pictures from Agatha.

I haven’t spoken with Agatha (I’m not sure if she’d like it), so it’s really good to hear she’s doing well. She looks happy. And tan.

Dr. Wellbelove eventually gets pulled away by one of his mates. I glance over at Baz. He’s no longer talking with the older ladies—seems he’s moved on to a group of girls. Old classmates of ours. He’s always been annoyingly popular with them. 

Our eyes meet and I stick out my tongue at him. He smoothly raises an eyebrow and then goes back to ignoring me. Wanker. Makes me want to go over there and grab him.

Maybe I should. I could grab him by the arm and say _‘sorry, but I’m taking my boyfriend back now’_, and then we can finally start our date.

I wonder if any of them know.

I don’t get a chance to think on that further. Someone claps me on the shoulder hard before dropping down into the seat next to me. I startle—my invisible tail whacks against one of the table legs.

“Simon Snow! I didn’t know you were a member of the club!”

Siegfried and fucking Roy.

It’s one of the Mage’s Men. Noah something-or-other. My pulse is pounding hard in my throat. What’s he doing here? What business could he possibly have here? The team disassembled after— after....

“Um,” is all I manage to croak out.

Noah smiles. He’s got one of those faces where he kind of always looks like he’s up to something nefarious—but I think he’s a decent guy. Bit of an arse-kisser, though.

“I’m Noah Bailey,” he says. “I guess you don’t remember me.”

“N-no,” I say, “I do. You, um, you’re one of the Mage’s Men. Were. Were one of ‘em.”

“That’s right!” Noah pushes Baz’s plate aside and leans his arm well into the space. “I haven’t seen you since the investigation.”

I swallow. “Yeah.”

“What brings you here?” he asks.

“Lunch. You?”

“Lunch, golf, you know.” (I guess that should have been obvious, given he’s got his golf clothes on.) “You’re a club member now?”

“No....”

“Came with the Wellbeloves, then?”

“No.”

Noah’s smile widens. “Then, who?”

“Basilton Pitch,” I say.

“Oh.” Noah’s eyes immediately go to Baz, knowing exactly where he is in the room. “So the rumours are true, are they?”

“Rumours?” I shove a mouthful of roast beef in my mouth.

“That you two are together.” Noah sees I’m still chewing, so he continues: “Everyone saw how you took Basil’s side in the trials, but, well, we didn’t want to believe the _Mage’s Heir_ would betray him like that.”

I gulp down my food too soon and hit my chest to help it along. “B-betray?”

Noah gives me a different smile now. It’s one I’ve seen a lot. It’s the _‘I pity how dumb you are’_ smile. Except, you know, more nefarious, given his face and all.

“Sure. Teaming up with the House of Pitch? Hard to believe our Simon Snow would do that.”

_I’m not _your_ Simon Snow_, I don’t say. _I’m not anybody’s anything._

“I didn’t team up with them,” is what I do say.

“But you’re dating one of them.”

“I’m dating Baz, yeah.” I grip my fork too tight. “That doesn’t mean I’ve betrayed anybody. He— his mum—”

“Right, yeah, his mum,” Noah says, sounding bored.

“She— the Mage—”

“Killed by vampires, wasn’t it?” Noah looks right at Baz again.

I set the fork down. I’m breathing hard. “Vampires sent by the Mage.”

“Hum.” Noah slides his eyes back to me. “Too bad we couldn’t hear his side of the story, yeah?”

I feel like I can’t get enough air. Like I’m choking on my magic, except there’s no magic left to choke on.

I have to get out of here.

I jump up, the chair clattering noisily behind me. “Excuse me,” I say, too loudly, and then I’m off.

The exit’s too far, so I rush towards the bathroom. There’s some older bloke at one of the urinals, but it’s otherwise empty. I shut myself up in a stall and close my eyes.

_Breathe. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four._

(My therapist and I are going to have way too much to talk about this week.)

I lean my forehead against the cubicle wall. It's cool, helps calm me down. I keep my breathing as quiet as I can, so the other guy doesn't realize ‘the Chosen One’ is having a panic attack in the loo.

I hear the door swing open as someone else enters, their shoes clacking sharply on the tiles. I keep breathing, counting. The new bloke washes his hands, and the older man leaves. Good—I breathe more, count more. The water turns off, there’s more sharp footfalls, and I think the second guy is going to leave, too. But I don't hear the door opening. I hear a click.

Locked.

I'm not breathing at all now—there's no breaths to count. I count the thud of my pulse in my throat instead. And all the while, those harsh footsteps come closer, until they're just outside my stall door.

Oxfords. Cuffed jeans. Bare ankles.

“Snow?”

I fling open the stall door and scowl at Baz.

“You nearly scared the piss out of me!”

“Well, you're in the right place for it.”

I groan and lean heavily against the opened door. Baz hovers in the door frame, hands hanging loose in his pockets.

“I saw you rush off,” he says. “Came to see if you finally discovered your upper limit for roast beef.”

“I didn’t realize some of the— some of the Mage’s Men would be here,” I admit. “You should have mentioned that.”

“I figured you’d find that _too coddling_.”

I clench my jaw and stare down at our feet.

Baz sighs. “Do you want to leave?”

“No.”

“Is that a real ‘no’, or am I supposed to read your mind and see that you actually want something else?”

I feel my face get hot all over again.

“You know,” I grunt, “when I say shitty things, I apologize, Baz.” I bring my head back up to glower at him. He looks as impassive as ever. It pisses me off more. “But somehow, you think you can be an arsehole and never face repercussions for it.”

Baz sneers. “You knew my personality full well when you signed up for this, Snow.”

“I thought being boyfriends would mean you’d stop twisting the knife when I’m hurting!”

“_Which is it_?” Baz snaps. He sounds startlingly agitated, especially in comparison to how unmoving he is. “Do you want things to stay the same, or do you want them to change? Choose, Chosen One!”

I'm fucking seething. I don't want this—I don't want to deck my boyfriend.

“Move,” I grit out. “I’m going for a walk.”

Baz sighs again. His shoulders droop. I'm surprised he lets himself broadcast that much.

“Snow.” He’s back to sounding calm.

“_Move_,” I insist.

He does. He takes three steps, straight back. I exit the stall and head for the door.

“Snow,” he says again, softer. “I’m sorry. I am. You asked me not to watch everything I say and do.”

I wheel around to glare at him down the length of the bathroom. “No. Fuck that. You don’t get to blame this on that. I know who you are when you’re not holding back, Baz Pitch. You’re the guy I woke up to this morning. Not— not this.”

“Simon....”

I hate that it’s been less than a day, and here we are again, in another fight, standing at opposite ends of a room.

“Let’s just—” I shake my head, try again. “Look, we can’t cram eight months,”—years?—“of relationship problems into twenty-four hours,” I say. “My head’s about to explode. I’m going to go for that walk. Then I’m grabbing some sandwiches, and we’ll go. All right?”

Baz hesitates. “All right.”

I hesitate, too. Baz doesn’t move. He just watches me with his droopy eyes, looking like a scolded puppy. I tousle my hair.

“We’ll be okay,” I say.

Baz nods, but doesn’t say anything.

Right.

I turn around, unlock the door, and yank it open—and I nearly walk straight into someone.

“S-sorry!” I gawk up at the man, flustering further when I realize it’s William Stainton. He's Philippa’s older brother and was one of the Mage’s Men. We’d never talked much, but he always seemed like a pretty upright bloke.

William laughs. It’s a warm sound. “It’s all right, Simon. Good to see you—and with such energy.”

Pretty embarrassing that my ‘energy’ is caused by the fight I had with my boyfriend, who I’m leaving standing around in the bathroom like a berk.

“Thanks. Um, here you go.” I hold the door open for him, and he slips by me. “See you.”

I scurry off, letting the door swing shut behind William on its own, so I’m sure not to catch a final glimpse of Baz’s face.

* * *

I pace the club grounds and brutalize the cuticle of my thumb with my teeth.

Baz is a jerk. I know that. I’ve always known that.

He’s been different since Christmas, though. Since we started kissing and dating and admitting we like each other.

Well. Baz never really said those exact words. There was no _‘I like you, Simon’_. (Not even an _‘I like you, Snow’_.) Which is fine. I told him that, even. Told him I wouldn’t know what to do if he didn’t hate me.

What I meant is that I didn’t want his whole personality to change, and for him to start babying me, just because we’re dating. I didn’t want to lose his snark entirely. I could live without the deliberate cruelness, though. There’s no reason for that charade any more.

Fat luck explaining that to Baz. I’m shite with words, and he’s shite at listening.

I finally managed to get some of those feelings out last night, and he’s already throwing them in my face as some excuse to be a complete fucking pillock. I don’t get what his problem is.

Does he think I want him to be like he was when we were enemies?

I guess I have to ask him. Or try to explain it better. I don’t know what words to use. I can think about these things well enough—especially lately, now that I’m feeling a bit better than a few months ago—but the second I try to vocalize my thoughts, my wires get crossed, and it all comes out wrong.

(_‘Faulty wiring.’_)

I pause in my pacing. I breathe for a minute, then get moving again.

Maybe Baz is sick of me. He’d have every reason to be. Magickless; bereft in every sense of the word—who would want to date that? Even though I’m getting better....

I give my head a hard shake.

No. Baz wants to be with me. He proved that much last night and this morning. He didn’t have to say _‘I like you’_. He just had to hold me and say he wouldn’t let go. He was empathetic and sweet, without losing his bite. That’s the real Baz underneath it all. Yeah, he’s a prick—but he’s so much more than that. He can be so fucking tender.

Is he afraid to show that? Afraid I’ll find him too soft?

Baz is an idiot.

I think…I think he loves me. I think maybe he’s as afraid of losing me as I am of losing him.

He doesn’t have to say it.

But maybe I do.

Maybe I should tell him that he’s the one with his head up his arse. Maybe I should tell him that I’m finally starting to see clearer, and I know he’s backing away, in case I see too much of him.

Maybe I should tell him I love him. Because I do. And maybe he needs to hear that.

I think I could get those words out without messing them up.

* * *

I make my way back to the main entrance of the club building. I'm a little worried they won't let me back in without a member escorting me, but I guess they remembered seeing me come in with Basilton Pitch. I don't think they'd risk upsetting him by not allowing re-entry to his guest.

When I enter the lunch hall, I half expect to find Baz sitting where I put our plates. He's not there. Looks like the food was cleared away too. (What a waste.)

I swivel my head about, scanning the thinning crowd for him. Groups are starting to break up, either heading home or to different areas of the club.

Maybe Baz went to the courts to blow off steam. I didn't see him there, but I could have missed him.

Except he doesn't have his tennis kit with him, so maybe not. Can't imagine him debasing himself (or the sport?) so much as to borrow someone else's racket and play in his cuffed up jeans and fancy shoes.

I check the bathroom. Not that I really think he would have waited in there the whole time. But weirder things have happened.

Ugh.

I can't spot Baz anywhere. I’ll kill him if he left without me. I don't think he would do that. (Would he?) It would suck if I had to ask Dr. Wellbelove for a ride home.

I stomp back into the lunch hall to give it another shot. I pull out my mobile and shoot him a text: ‘_where r u? can’t find u’_, and I’m so focused on the task, I very nearly walk into someone again. I catch myself just in time and stumble back half a step.

“Oh,” I croak.

It's Philippa Stainton.

She gives me a crooked smile and a little wave.

“Hi, Philippa,” I bluster. “Funny thing—I almost crashed into your brother before, too!” I wince at how lame that makes me sound.

She smiles wider and it looks like maybe she's laughing. Except, you know, silently.

I've not seen Philippa since…the incident, fifth year.

Guilt gnaws in my stomach.

It's not like what happened to her is directly my fault—but I'm not exactly innocent either, am I? Baz was always torturing me back then, fifth year especially, and all my stalking him and harassing him and generally being a nuisance just egged him on further. It was a stupid dynamic between two stupid fifteen year olds. No one else was supposed to get hurt.

I’ve never spoken with Baz about it. I don’t even know what really happened that day.

I wonder if he feels guilty.

“H-how, um, how are you? It’s been a while.”

Philippa gives a little shrug and smile. She reaches into her purse and pulls out some kind of device. There’s a screen and a keyboard that faces her, which she starts tapping on, and there’s another screen that faces out, where I can see what she’s writing.

—_I’m well. How are you, Simon?_

The whole thing makes me incredibly anxious. From the guilt, I guess. And the fear I’m going to say something insensitive. And the fear I’ve already _done_ something insensitive by dating the guy who did this to her—

“G-good,” I say. I quickly hit send on that text to Baz, feeling gross all the while, and shove my mobile back in my pocket. “I’m. Well. You know.” I shrug. “I’m good.”

Philippa doesn’t really look like she believes me.

—_I heard about the investigation._

“Yeah.” I rub at the short hair at the back of my head. “Um. Everyone’s heard, huh? I guess it was, uh, a pretty big deal.”

She nods firmly and starts typing again.

—_It must be hard to cope. Are you all right?_

I swallow. My skin’s prickling with anxiety. How can she be so concerned about me, after what happened? She obviously doesn’t blame me, but still.... It’s not like I tried to follow up with her. I asked the Mage about her, yeah, but he said she’d be fine and not to worry.

I wonder if he ever bothered to check on her at all.

_I_ should have. I should have tried harder.

I’m really not the good guy everyone thinks I am, huh?

“I'm all right,” I say. “It's taking time, but I'm carrying on.”

Philippa gives me a relieved look before going back to typing. She's really sweet. It makes me feel extra awful.

I remember Agatha complaining to me about Philippa. About what a bad roommate she was, and how she'd tease Agatha for her magic. How she was a bit stuck up. This Philippa right now is far from that. More mature. Probably from the trauma.

Trauma hasn’t made me more mature. I’ve just found new ways to go off. Like fighting with my boyfriend.

—_I heard about your magic, too._

I nod and shrug and chew at my thumb again. I don’t know what to say. It’s not a secret exactly, but it’s not widespread knowledge, either. William must have told her. A lot of the Mage’s Men were at the trials. (More than I was comfortable with, frankly.)(Kind of glad most of it’s a blur.)

—_I’m not the only one now_, she types.

_Fuck_, I think.

“Fuck,” I say. “Yeah. Yeah, huh?”

I hadn’t thought of that at all. We’re the only two people who have had magic and then lost it. Except Philippa’s actually a mage. This is actually her world.

I feel sick.

“It never, uh, never got better for you, did it?” It’s an idiotic question, considering she’s got to type her words out to me. “I mean—”

Philippa smiles crookedly.

—_No. We tried, but nothing worked._

I rub my palms on my thighs. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s a lot to deal with, yeah? Sorry....”

She shakes her head, gives me this warm sort of look. She really doesn’t blame me. It doesn’t feel right.

Then, her expression pinches, and she goes back to typing.

—_You came here with Basilton?_

My stomach sinks. “Yeah,” I admit. “I did. He’s, um....” I swing my head around, realizing I still haven’t spotted him anywhere. “Lost track of him, actually, but yeah.”

I check my mobile. No message from him. Arse.

When I look up, Philippa’s got another message waiting for me:

—_Are you two dating?_

Merlin. This is so crap. I’m sweating with nerves. I nod, open my mouth to say something, but then close it and nod again.

Philippa does something similar. She looks like she wants to say something and hovers her fingers over her keypad. Then she sighs and lowers it down. She gives me a tense smile and nods.

“I, uh—” I take a step back from her. “I should keep trying to find him, I think.” (I’m a coward. A villain and a coward.)

Philippa looks like she wants to say something again, more earnestly this time. I wait, heart in my throat, but she’s still hesitating. Her eyes dart around and she stalls over her keyboard again, and then again.

Finally, she shakes her head and taps out something:

—_Good to see you, Simon. Take care._

“Y-you too,” I say. She probably wanted to tell me off. I back away before she changes her mind. “Bye, Philippa! Nice talking with you!”

Ugh—fuck. _‘Nice talking with you?’_ That’s so bad.

I run off.

I run until I’m barrelling out of the building and into the car park. I’ve got my mobile out, and I’m feeling frazzled and sick, and I nearly bump into something _again_—

Except this time it’s quite a bit more dangerous, because it’s a car zipping past. A big beige Jeep that could wreck me good. I jump back in time, and it swerves to miss me but makes no attempt at slowing down.

“Oi!” I yell at it. Fucking maniac, ripping through a car park like that.

It’s startling enough that it helps burn off some of my adrenaline from talking to Philippa. I sigh and tug at my hair and trudge my way to where Baz parked his car. If it’s not there and he really did leave without me, I’m rethinking my love confession for sure.

No need, though. The Jag’s there, gleaming prettily in the afternoon sun.

I hop up on the bonnet (Baz’ll kill me, but it serves him right) and give him a ring.

I listen to the ringing on my end…and I can faintly hear a buzzing nearby me.

Baz, that bloody wanker—is he trying to sneak up on me? Forgot to silence his phone first. He’s gotten sloppy.

I grin to myself and pretend I don’t hear it. Let him think he’s got me, I don’t mind.

Except the sneak attack never comes, and eventually I get his answerphone.

“Baz, you prick,” I say playfully into the recording, “I’m waiting for you at your car. Come get me. I’m lonely, yeah?”

I tuck my phone away. Wait a few beats. But he still doesn’t make his move.

Fine, then.

I whip around fast, expecting to catch him. There’s no Baz in sight. I guess that’s to be expected—he can definitely move faster than me.

Still, I hop off the car and circle around it. “Baz, I know you’re there. Stop playing.”

It’s as I get to the back of the car that I realize how fucking wrong I am.

Baz isn’t there. But his phone is, placed on top of the boot.

Along with his wallet. And his keys. And his wand.

And a note.

‘_We’ll be in touch_,’ it says.

* * *

I think I blinked out for a second.

I couldn’t hear the birds or feel the warmth of the sun or smell the grass on the breeze.

It took every fraction of brain power I had to understand the sight before me.

Baz has been kidnapped.

At the club.

_Again_.

BOOK THREE

PENELOPE

I’m in the loo when I hear my phone ringing from the living room. It’s Simon. I can tell, because he set his ringtone to the Doctor Who theme, despite knowing I don’t particularly care for the show. (I didn’t have the heart to change it, even though he deliberately did it to be a little jerk.)

I’m not pressed to make it to the phone in time. I finish my business, letting it ring until he hits my answerphone. It’s only once the theme song immediately starts ringing again that I feel a zap of panic run through me.

I rush out of the bathroom and scramble to get the call before it ends again.

“Simon?” I try not to sound overly fussed—I don’t want him to think I’m babying him, especially not after our talk this morning.

“_Pen_—”

He’s breathless and frenzied.

I was right to be worried.

“What’s happened?” I ask.

“I think—” He just breathes for a moment, heavily, and I want to reach through the phone and shake him. “Baz has been kidnapped,” he finally says.

“_What_?”

“Yeah.”

“No. Wait. What?” I walk over to our bookshelves, as if something there might help this all makes sense. “What do you mean, you think he’s been kidnapped?”

“No, I— I _know_ he’s been kidnapped. Yeah. Yeah, he’s definitely been kidnapped.”

“Simon, you’re not making any sense. _How_ do you know Baz has been kidnapped? What’s happened?”

“I stormed off at the club, Pen,” he says. I can hear the thin wheeze of incoming hysteria in his voice. “And then I couldn’t find him. And now I’m at his car. His car’s still here. But on the boot there’s— there’s his phone and wallet and keys and his _wand_, Pen, he doesn’t have his _wand,_ and—”

“Simon, breathe.”

“—and there’s a note. A typed up note that says ‘_we’ll be in touch_’. And that’s it. That’s it. He’s not here. They took him.”

“Okay.” I keep scanning the shelves. Do I have books with tracking spells in them? I must have books with tracking spells— “Do you have any idea who it could be? What could have happened?”

“No,” Simon groans. “Fuck, Penny, what the fuck do we do?”

“I—” Well. I don’t know. I have no idea what to do. But I can’t very well tell him that, can I? “Simon, can you drive Baz’s car?”

“What? Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

“You’re _okay_ to drive, I mean?”

“_Yes_, Penny.”

“…All right. Gather up his things, come back to the flat. I’ll research finding spells.”

“R-right—”

“Don’t drive like a madman,” I tell him firmly. “It won’t do him any good if you get into an accident.”

“Right,” he says, voice sounding a touch steadier.

“And even once we save his arse, I don’t think he’ll forgive you for wrecking his car.”

Simon groans again, but this time it’s almost with humour. “Yeah, right, I get it.” I can hear the shuffling of him opening the car and fumbling with the keys. “Be there soon.”

“We’ll find him,” I assure.

I can hear Simon swallow. “Yeah. Yeah, we will.”

I start taking books off the shelves.

* * *

By the time Simon comes charging into the flat, I’ve got five books open around me and some scribbled pages of notes on scrap paper.

He looks awful. His face is blotchy and his eyes are wild and haunted. Still, I’m relieved to see how _alert_ his gaze is. I worried this would bring him back several months of progress, fog him over with despondency, but he looks focused.

“Well?” Simon asks by way of greeting. He kicks off his shoes and throws himself down on the floor on the other side of the coffee table. His gaze darts over all the research, though I doubt he’d take in much information even if it weren't all upside down to him.

“Well,” I say from where I'm sat on the couch, “as you might expect, finding spells are tricky. Unless you’re already within a certain radius of what you’re looking for, they’re not very effective.”

“That’s how Fiona found Baz last time,” Simon urges. “He said she used a souped up finding spell and canvassed all of London.”

“Yes, but even so....”

Simon holds my gaze until I have to look away. I can’t bring myself to say what I’m thinking: _‘Even so, it took her six weeks.’_

“Let’s call her,” Simon decides. “She’s in Prague, but she can tell us which spell it was. She should know this is happening.”

“I thought you hated his aunt.”

Simon starts scrolling through his phone and tapping, and then he puts it to his ear. “She’s grown on me.” (I think he has a strange soft spot for Pitches.) “Besides, she should still _know_, Pen.”

I wonder if this means Simon will want to call Malcolm Grimm as well. I wonder if that’s a good or bad idea.

I keep scanning over my books while Simon waits for Fiona to pick up.

“Fiona, it’s me, Simon Snow,” he says. “When you get this, please call me back. It’s about Baz, and it’s important. Um. Yeah. Thanks.”

I frown at him as he ends the call. “No answer, then?”

Simon shakes his head. “So what do we do?”

I put one of the pages of notes on top. I already have it labelled: _Everything we know_ and _Everything we still don’t._

“Let’s start filling this out.”

I write _Baz kidnapped at club_ under the first column. Then I look at Simon.

He frowns and shrugs. “That’s it. Well—” He fishes into his pockets and starts pulling out Baz’s belongings and a folded piece of paper. “There’s this.” He thrusts it at me.

I open it. The note is as Simon described: an ominous message, simply typed.

“Not numpties,” Simon says. “Someone with access to a computer and a printer.”

_Not numpties_ I add to the _Everything we know_ list. And I also add _they’ll be in touch_.

“They must want a ransom,” Simon says as he watches me write. “Even the numpties asked for a ransom. Why else would they get in touch, other than to state their terms?”

I add to the other column:

—_ransom?_

—_possible suspects?_

—_motive?_

Simon carefully plucks up Baz’s phone with both hands and stares at it. It’s painfully reverent; I can’t quite stomach his clear vulnerability.

“They’ll likely call his phone,” I agree with his silent concern.

He nods. “Right. Do you think we can track the call?”

“Hm.”

“Like detectives do, you know? Tap the phones?”

“Magickal phone tapping?” I lean back into the cushions and consider this. “Actually....”

Simon perks up. “You can do it?”

“I might be able to cobble something together.” I head for the shelves again. “Divining techniques weren't well covered at Watford—part of the Mage’s reforms,” I say as I scan about. “Clear off the table, Si.”

Simon does so, unceremoniously shoving it all onto the floor. “What are you thinking?”

I find what I'm looking for soon enough. I pull the booklet out and begin flipping and then unfolding it onto the coffee table.

“London,” Simon mutters to himself.

I flop back down onto the couch and consider the map of the greater London area now splayed before us.

“Map dowsing is sensitive to suggestion, so it's rarely deployed as a practical method,” I explain.

“Like ouija boards.”

I frown. “Simon, those aren't real.”

He groans and throws his hands up. “Oh sure, but _dowsing_ is?”

“To an extent,” I say. “My father has tried to use it on occasion during his study of the holes—I only know what he's shown me.”

Simon roughs up his hair. (He's going to go bald early if he keeps that up.) “Don't you need a crystal for that? A pendulum?”

“That's right.” I'm surprised Simon remembers that much from our limited exposure to scrying techniques in school. “I'm thinking…since using magickal energies to power divination isn't typically strong enough to provide a solid answer…perhaps I could _spell_ it to be more powerful.”

“Casting and divining at the same time?” Simon screws up his mouth, unconvinced. “Is that possible?”

I grin. “It might be, if,”—I wiggle my ring off my finger—“your divining crystal and magickal instrument are one in the same.” I hold the ring by the band, letting the purple stone hang down, and I mimic a circle motion. Simon's jaw drops.

“Can you do that?”

“Worth a shot. It's theoretically sound,” I say.

Simon nods vigorously. “Okay. Yeah. What spell, though?”

“Find me something to dangle the ring from, and I'll think on that.”

Simon scurries off. It's good to keep him busy, so he doesn't keep spiralling.

I think I already have a spell in mind. Drawing from pop culture is always tricky—spells can only carry power if the words themselves are that ubiquitously powerful already…but I think my idea is the best chance we've got.

I instead let my thoughts drift to who could want to kidnap Basilton Pitch.

Things have been peaceful since Christmas. Baz single-handedly stopped the war with the Old Families.

Could someone on his side be upset about the missed opportunity?

There's no one left for them to war _against_, though. The Mage is dead and his Men disbanded. The Coven is freshly run. What could make the Families so disgruntled as to turn on one of their own? A Pitch, no less. The _last_ Pitch.

Could that be it? A power grab, at the expense of having Fiona and the Grimms retaliate? That seems short-sighted.

Simon comes back into the room, sporting string and scissors and looking like a man on the brink.

“Thank you, Si.”

I measure out a length of string and get to work. Simon watches me and stays quiet as he chews his cuticles to shreds.

“Simon,” I say, “do you have any idea who would want to kidnap Baz? And why?”

“No. I mean. Not really.”

“Not really?” I echo with interest.

Simon pulls up his knees and folds his arms on top. “The only thing I can think is that it's the Coven....”

I nearly drop my ring. “The Coven? Great snakes, why would you think that?”

“It makes sense, doesn't it?” Simon frowns. “Mr. Grimm’s been able to get attention away from Baz being a vampire for so long. I don't remember much of the trials, but wasn't Baz’s kidnapping brought up?”

“It was…,” I admit. I don't really want to drag this up for Simon, but it could be important. “Baz said numpties captured him at the club, under orders from the Mage, and that they locked him in a coffin, but opened it every so often to give him food.”

“Right, yeah. No one found that suspicious?”

“Baz said the coffin part was due to the Mage suspecting he was a vampire because _you_ were always harping about it, Si.”

Simon groans and buries his head in his arms. “Fuck. Right.”

“It _is_ possible it’s someone from the Coven,” I admit. “Though, I don’t think any of them would do this.”

“The Old Families?” His voice is muffled by his arms.

“I was thinking that, too.”

“Doesn’t make much sense either, yeah?”

“Agreed.” I test the knot I’ve tied around the band of my ring. “From either side, who would risk angering the Grimms and Pitches?”

Simon groans into his arms again. “I don’t know. It’s so stupid. Why do this?” He whips his head up, and I inhale sharply at the look in his eyes; he’s falling apart. “Why do this, Pen?!”

“I don’t know,” I say softly.

Simon buries his head again. I can feel him slipping away from me. I’m not sure what to do. Baz would likely prod Simon until he built up a bluster—and I do agree that’s better than _this_—but it’s not my style. I could never needle Simon like that.

“Until Fiona gets back to us,” I slowly begin again, “we’re on our own in this, Si. With the motivation unclear, we can’t well trust the Families or the Coven to provide backup.”

Simon drags his head back up to peer at me. It feels like he’s looking through me.

“It’s up to us to save him,” I continue. “We’re a little rusty, but I think we can do it.” I offer him a smile. “A brand new adventure for Simon Snow and his dread companion.”

Simon doesn’t smile back—he frowns. “‘M not really capable of that any more, am I, Pen?”

I open my mouth to protest, just as there’s a loud buzz from Baz’s phone.

Simon’s on it in an instant, immediately breathless. “It’s a text!”

He scrambles to the side of the coffee table, and we lean in towards each other to look.

—_We have Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch._

Straight to the point, then.

“Can we trace that?” I wonder.

The sender is an e-mail address, perhaps randomly generated—it’s a jumble of letters and numbers at a Hotmail domain.

“I don’t think so,” Simon says. His fingers are shaking terribly as he composes his reply.

—_What do u want?_

—_Compensation._

That’s an odd way to put it. “Compensation for what?” I wonder as Simon barrels ahead with a new message.

—_How much?_

—_Our compensation doesn’t have a monetary value, Simon Snow._

—_Name a price_

—_One billion pounds._

Simon barks out a humourless sound.

—_That’s a joke_, he types, _the entire Grimm-Pitch estate isn’t even worth that much._

“It’s mad,” I whisper. Simon nods and doesn’t take his eyes off the mobile’s screen.

—_750 million._

—_Make a realistic offer!_

“They’re fucking with us,” Simon growls. (It’s the most pathetic sounding growl I’ve ever heard from him, too high and thin.)

—_2 million._

Simon sags with relief; I’m not so assuaged.

“Simon,” I say carefully, “I don’t know—”

He’s already shooting off another text:

—_Prove he’s alive n ok_

That’s reasonable, and it tackles part of my concerns, so I say nothing.

There’s a long, tense moment where neither one of us move so much as to even look away from the phone. We hardly even breathe.

Eventually, a photo comes through. It’s Baz, sitting in a chair, with his hands bound behind his back (Ropes? Cuffs? Magickal binding?). The image is cropped tight. No details of his environment are present; there’s simply a nondescript grey wall behind him—cement. In typical Baz fashion, he’s giving the camera a disinterested look, one eyebrow cocked. It’s not as heartening as he likely hopes, given his hair is a mess, his shirt looks scuffed, and he’s sporting a split lip. I see dried blood along his temple as well, matted into his hair. (I wonder how vampires handle blood loss? Add it to our list of vampire queries.)

Simon inhales, deep and shaky, as he takes in the photo.

“He’s feeling chipper enough to make a face,” I offer.

“Baz can make that face through anything,” Simon says. “You said you can only dowse if they call, yeah?”

“I can _try_ if they call,” I correct.

Simon nods.

—_Photos not enough. Put him on the phone I want to speak w him_

“Perfect, Simon!” I hold out my arm over the map, with my ring dangling from the string, at the ready.

There’s another tense wait. (My arm’s getting tired.) I can see Simon’s eyes flicking back and forth between the timestamp of his last message and the phone’s clock. (I eventually have to lower my arm most of the way, but I stay vigilant.)

Simon waits exactly three minutes, then sends another message:

—_Need to hear his voice to confirm he’s alive. Not a recording_

I ready myself anew, and thankfully, we don’t have to wait long this time. A call comes through from an unknown number.

“_**New phone, who dis?” **_I cast. Simon immediately puts the call on loudspeaker.

“Hello?” Simon blurts.

“Hullo, Snow.”

I focus my magic as best I can and let my ring begin sweeping in wide circles over the map.

“Baz! _Fuck_— Is it really you?”

“Yes, Snow, it’s me,” comes Baz’s humourless reply.

I breathe deep and continue to draw up my magic, encouraging it to flow down my arm, along the chain, and into the stone. The arcs are wide, too wide....

I fear this isn’t going to work.

SIMON

Merlin Almighty, it’s good to hear Baz’s voice—good to know he’s alive and able to speak, at the very least. The sound brings me back into my body some.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Well,” Baz drawls, “I’ll have you know they’ve got me on speaker, because they’ve wrenched my arms behind my back and tied me up. Though I think you saw the snapshot.”

“Yeah, I saw,” I say. “I hope you didn’t let them scuff up your nice jeans, Baz.”

“I regret to inform you they’re rather ruined, which is a shame—I liked them nearly as much as you did.”

I let out a shaky laugh, and Baz continues: “They seem to be under the impression I’m a vampire, so no one dares get close enough to hold the phone to my ear, in case I bite their arm off.”

I shoot a look at Penny, but she’s got her eyes closed now and is concentrating so hard that there’s sweat all along her brow, her glasses slipping down her nose.

The circle her ring’s making has gotten smaller, but it’s still encompassing most of London. I have to keep him talking.

“That explains the busted lip,” I say. “Cut that on your ‘fangs’, did you?”

I can hear Baz smirk. “So their story goes. But I seem to have this fuzzy memory that I took a golf club to the head after leaving the bathroom, so my theory is that’s more to blame.”

“_Fuck_,” I mutter. “Are you badly hurt?”

“I’m all right. It’s a quaint operation. I think one has garlic around his neck. Poor thing’s going to reek for days.”

“I’m guessing you can’t tell me where you are, huh?”

“No, I’d guess not,” Baz says. “They’re threatening me by holding up a lighter. They presume I’m too terrified by the prospect of getting singed eyebrows to let you know they’ve got me in a warehouse owned b—”

“_**Cat got y—!**_**”**

The line goes dead. My stomach drops through the floor.

“Fucking hell!” He just had to be a smartarse about it! If they hurt him for that....

I frantically pull up the text messages while Penny groans at the map.

“Could you locate the call?” I ask as I tap out a text message:

—_Don’t hurt him! Give me time to get the money_

Penny falls back against the couch cushions, drained. “I could only narrow it down to south west London.”

“That's something,” I say. I chew on a bloodied hangnail and don't take my eyes off the phone.

“That’s a big area, Si....”

“We also know he's in a warehouse now. _And_ we’ve got a price for the ransom.”

Penny takes off her glasses and wipes at her face. “I thought Pitches don’t pay ransoms.”

“They don’t, but Mr. Grimm will.” I press the phone to my forehead and try to think. “Either way, we can _tell_ them we’ve got the money and organize a meeting.”

“Simon,” Penny says in that tired way, “we can’t risk something like that. They think he’s a vampire,”—I groan because I know she’s right before she continues—“if they so much as suspect we’re scamming them, they only have to toss that lighter his way.”

“You’re right, you’re right....”

We sit in uncomfortable silence, thinking.

I yank my head back from the phone when a message comes through:

—_We told you. Our compensation isn’t money._

“What the fuck—” I grunt as I type frantically.

—_You said 2 million!_

—_We lied. Just like him. Just like you. How does it feel?_

—_What do you want???! Give me time n I’ll get it_

—_Justice. Not something YOU can give us. He doesn’t have much time, anyway._

Well, that’s fucking ominous, isn’t it?

—_Until what?_

—_Until we have our proof._

“What does that mean?” Penny murmurs.

I lower the phone. My arms are heavy with dread.

I asked Baz once how often he needs to drink._ ‘Every night to feel good,’_ Baz told me. _‘Every few nights to stay sane.’_

“He can last longer than us without food,” I say, “but even so, he hasn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. And I doubt he drank all the blood I made him yesterday.” (Maybe if I hadn’t fucking burnt it_—_!)“He needs to drink at least every three days, Pen.”

Penny gives me a dismayed look. “Do you think they know that?”

“Got no idea, do I?” I pull at my hair. “If their plan is to wait him out, then they’re right—he doesn’t have much time.”

“Forty-eight hours to be safe,” Penny says. I nod.

“And if they hurt him, torture him, his fangs could pop,” I add, my voice dropping low.

“Right....”

We fall silent. My mind is swimming and blank all at once. There’s an itch under my skin. I want to whack my sword around and scream and go off. Only one of those is an option, though. I bite my lip.

“Let’s try Fiona again,” Penny eventually offers.

I still only get Fiona’s answerphone. I don’t leave another message, but I do send her a text that says _‘it’s urgent, plz call me back right away.’_

I curse and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. I can feel Penny’s warm touch rest on my shoulder. She rubs soothing circles there.

“She’ll call back,” Penny says, “and then we’ll know which spell is best. I’ll keep researching and trying things until then.”

“It took her six weeks, Pen,” I moan into my hands. The rhythm of Penny’s hand falters—my heart squeezes.

“There must be a way,” Penny says. “We’ll find it. Then we’ll find him.”

And after that?

If we go in without backup, we put him in danger—one lit match is all it will take. And if we get the Coven involved and they’re _not_ the ones behind this, it’s still risky; they could easily find out once and for all that Baz really is a vampire.

Either way, Baz loses.

Either way, I can’t save him.

“Last time…I told him I would have found him faster. I told him I wouldn’t have made him wait.”

That was when I still had magic. That was when I still thought I was a hero.

“Simon....”

Now what am I?

I’m a villain who’s so useless, I couldn’t even be properly villainous.

Philippa and Noah’s judging smiles burn in the back of my mind.

I’m masquerading as a retired hero, while dating a Pitch and a vampire.

No....

That’s not fair to Baz. He’s not a _bad_ vampire. He’s not a bad Pitch, either. Yeah, he’s a pretentious twat sometimes, but Penny and I give him what for. (Penny more successfully than me, obviously—I just kind of tell him off; she actually matches his points intellectually.)

He’s a surprisingly good guy.

Baz is probably more of a failed villain than I am, isn’t he?

…well, shit.

I jump up from the couch, startling Penny.

“Simon—?”

“Fuck this,” I exclaim. “Maybe I’m not a hero. Maybe Baz is breaking all the rules just by existing. We both are. So what?” I clench my fists. I can feel my agitation licking at my skin, like I’m about to go off. “Who better than a failed villain to save his arse, then?”

Penny blinks at me. “W-well—”

“I’m not waiting on Fiona. Sure, I’m magickless and stupid and I can’t do anything right.” I jut my chin and stand taller. My whole body is thrumming. “The one thing I’m _not_ is a liar. I told Baz I would find him,”—my tail thrashes and my wings flare out with a shudder, breaking free from their invisibility spell—“so I’m going to _fucking find him_, Penny!”

Penny stares up at me.

Then, her face splits into a grin.

“That’s the spirit, Si!”

“Right,” I pant. “Okay.” I grab Baz’s keys.

“Where are you going?”

“To find Baz.”

“Yes, but,” Penny says, “you can't canvas all of London on foot.”

“South west London,” I remind. “And I won’t be on foot the whole time. I’ll take Baz’s car.”

Penny frowns at me.

“How many warehouses could there possibly be?” I say.

Penny pushes up her glasses to rub at an eye. “Thousands. Easily.”

“That's fine.”

“If,” she stresses, “they don't move him now that he's told us.”

I pull on my trainers. “They won't. Baz wouldn't have said it if he thought they would relocate him.”

Penny hums thoughtfully at that. I toss her Baz’s phone.

“Let me know if there's anything, Pen. Anything at all.”

“Right,” Penny says. She takes a deep breath and straightens up. “I'll keep researching and calling Fiona.”

I let Penny hide my wings and tail once more. Just as I’m flinging myself out the door, Penny calls out to me:

“Simon, what are you even going to be looking for?”

“I dunno,” I call back. “I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it.”

* * *

I didn’t.

I drove until well past sunset, and I never found anything—no sign, or feeling in my gut, or flash of inspiration.

Penny rang me a few times to check-in. She was urging me to take a break, but I kept driving. I drove until I was stupid with hunger and fatigue. I kept telling myself _‘you won’t find him like this. Go eat something. Regroup with Penny. Do this the smart way.’ _I also kept telling myself _‘yeah, sure, just after one more block.’_

It wasn’t until a bit after midnight that I received a different phone call.

“Fiona?” I pulled over fast.

“Just got off the phone with Bunce,” Fiona spat from the other end. “What the fuck is going on, boyo?”

“Penny didn’t explain it to you?” I baulked.

“She did, but I want to hear it from _you._ Every last fucking detail.”

Fiona sounded absolutely livid. Not that I could blame her.

“All right, yeah, but can you make your way here in the meanwhile?”

“I already am,” she snapped. “I’m in a cab on my way to the airport right now. Bunce is going to meet me at my apartment once I’m in.”

It was so relieving to hear. I sighed and leaned my head against the steering wheel. “When will that be?”

“Four hours or so. Now stop asking me questions and start explaining, Chosen One!”

I told Fiona everything (which really wasn’t a lot). She made me swear not to call Malcolm. I thought she was going to hide it from him, which didn’t seem right by me—turns out she wanted to be the one to talk to him. That made sense. I don’t think he’d be very happy to receive a call from me on a good day.

“Do you have any idea who could have done this?” I’d asked her.

“Definitely not one of us.”

“You’re sure…?”

“_Yes,_” Fiona said. “It’s got to be someone from your side—”

“I don’t have a side,” I muttered.

“—though, it’s obviously not the Mage,” she continued over me.

I sunk lower into the Jag’s plush seats. “Obviously....”

“Whatever, who did it doesn’t matter. We find Basil, we find the culprits. Basil is our focus.”

“R-right.”

Fiona hung up with me shortly after that.

And now I’m just sat in the car. Not sure how long it’s been since I got off with Fiona. Not doing anything. Just breathing.

_Fiona’s a strong magician_, I tell myself. _She’ll work with Penny and they’ll power the tracking spell no problem_.

I flex my hands on the steering wheel over and over, and I breathe.

_I told Baz I’d do it faster,_ I remind myself. _I have to keep trying._

Driving around and leaning on luck isn’t cutting it, though.

My phone alerts me to a text from Penny.

—_Spoke with Fiona?_

—_Yeah_

—_Come home and get some sleep. We’ll need our rest before dealing with her._

That makes me smile a bit.

—_Alright_

I drag my body back into the apartment around two in the morning. Penny’s already sleeping, so I try to be quiet. I slap together a quick sandwich, tuck that away, and then flop face-first onto my bed.

It doesn’t feel right—sleeping, I mean. Feels like I’m not working hard enough.

Even so, I’m drifting off.

I hope Baz is all right.... I hope he’s conserving his strength and sleeping right now, too....

_I’ll find you, Baz. I don’t know how yet, but I will._

BAZ

I’m not a fool. I could tell I was being followed at the club.

I figured it was someone who wanted to creep on my interactions with Snow, or someone with a distaste for me. Either way, it didn’t bother me much. In the case of the latter, only the Mage or his merry band were ever foolish enough to pick fights at the club with someone of my reputation. In the case of the former, there wasn’t much to see, given Snow had fucked off.

I killed exactly fifteen minutes by sipping tea and chatting with whomever, and then I set off in search of Snow. I didn’t want him stewing by himself for too long. I also didn’t want Noah fucking Bailey tracking him down again.

So, yes. Even though I could tell I was being followed, I was too focused on finding Snow to pay it much mind.

No. That’s not entirely accurate.

I was too focused on how I could _reconcile_ things with Snow to pay it much mind, more like.

This sudden return of his feistiness was throwing me off. Not that I wasn’t happy to see him more present, of course. He’s been so taciturn since Christmas.

I admit I was perhaps slightly too thrilled to have him lash out at me. He was right—I have been quite coddling. He was so overwhelmed by every little thing, I didn’t see another option other than shielding him from everything that’s hurt him. It was nice, for a time, to be the one thing that wasn’t part of his pain any longer.

Yet, the second we found ourselves at odds again, I was filled with a pervasive sense of nostalgia.

It was confusing, to be fighting with Snow and to simultaneously love and relish it, as well as shrink away from it in shame.

I know how to be his lover (protect, hold, kiss, fuck), and I know how to be his nemesis (fight, trick, betray, disgust). I don’t know how to be his _friend_. I don’t know how to comfort or compromise or _talk_.

How do I possibly bridge that gap?

I still don’t have the answer to that, and I certainly didn’t have it went I set off in search of him. I only knew that I needed to try. Or at least try to salvage our lunch date before he talked himself into breaking up with me. (I wouldn’t have blamed him.)

I suppose he won’t have a chance to now. Given I’ve been kidnapped and all.

Even if he manages to rescue me, I doubt he’ll immediately break up with the bloke suffering a second round of kidnapping-induced trauma.

Perhaps that will be nice. I could let him care for me, let myself be the one who’s coddled for a little while. Maybe that would give Snow a sense of purpose again.

I doubt any of those things will happen.

I doubt he’ll be able to find me at all.

Not in time, anyway.

I lied to Snow when I told him it was a quaint operation. Yes, one of them has garlic around his neck, and yes, there are several mirrors about, as if testing my reflection in multiple sources will be more elucidating—but there are also far more concerning things. Like all the crosses littered about, making my eyes water and my teeth rattle and my bones ache. If one of them dares come close enough to touch any of these crosses to me, the sear of my flesh will be all the evidence they’ll need.

They’ve got a camera set up on a tripod. I don’t know who they plan on showing any damning footage to, unless they’re so committed to their cause they’re willing to damn themselves in the process. Kidnapping a dark creature is one thing—kidnapping a Pitch is another. If the Coven doesn’t have them swing for this, my family certainly will.

They intend on keeping me alive, they’ve been very clear about that. All the wooden crates and palettes filling the small warehouse in tandem with their constant Zippo-gesticulating suggest otherwise. Yet they keep insisting. It was what they opened with, even.

“Afternoon, Basilton.”

The garlic-wearer pulled the bag off my head, then jumped back quickly. The other two were grinning at me.

“You’re probably wondering what this is all about. Let’s start things off by assuring you that we have every intention of letting you live.”

“So long as you cooperate, of course.”

“Oh, and how could I doubt it?” I drawled. “Mercy and generosity towards my family were all the Mage ever fought for.”

I spat the blood from my split lip directly onto Noah fucking Bailey’s scuffed loafers. He squealed, to my delight.

William Stainton curled back his lips, likely more at Bailey’s reaction than my own. It was a truly ugly expression on an otherwise decent enough face. I hoped I would get the opportunity to mess it up—perhaps permanently.

That would be difficult, however, with the way they had me bound to a chair.

They tied my ankles to the legs and my hands behind my back, all with thick rope and a silver chain. Thankfully, that’s another myth—I’m not weak to silver. I could likely easily snap the chains, but the rope would be harder to shred. In the time that would take, they would have more than enough time to toss a match my way.

“You being a Pitch is the least of our concerns,” Stainton grunted at me.

“_Merlin_,” I said, “I had no idea the Mage’s Men were _homophobes_, on top of all the rest.”

Their blustering was a small comfort given the situation I was in. The trauma of being kidnapped (again) aside, my head was fucking pounding. I meant it when I told Snow they hit me with a club. That was the last thing I recall happening: seeing Bailey and some other twit strolling towards me. The other guy, Something-something Mitchell (not a powerful bloodline, never bothered to care)(they don’t even belong to the club), was holding a laden duffel bag, and Bailey was holding a golf driver. It wasn’t a particularly nefarious sight, until it was coupled with the increased encroachment of the presence behind me; they had been following me for so long at a distance and now were suddenly much closer. Too close—a running for me kind of close.

I remember dropping my wand into my hand and spinning around, casting a quick **stand your ground** on my pursuer (William Stainton, _of course_). Before I had the chance to turn and do the same to Bailey and Mitchell, I was getting walloped over the back of the head.

I came to when they were tying me up in the chair. Given the bag over my head, I took some time to talk myself down from a panic attack (it wouldn’t do me any good) before giving a theatrical groan to alert them to my consciousness. (How chivalrous of them to not wake me up with a bucket of cold water.)(Holy water would have done nicely.)

“You know exactly what this is about. It’s your crimes as a vampire we’re interested in,” Stainton said, face all twisted up.

“But you buggering the Mage’s Heir is disgusting enough,” Bailey butted in.

“If it makes you feel any better,” I said, “I’m typically the one being buggered.”

I thought Bailey was going to choke on his own tongue. He regrettably did not.

“I don’t need to hear this,” Mitchell groaned. “Enough with the gay shit! All we care about is you being a vampire!”

I forced a laugh. “Snow really convinced you all, hm? If I were a vampire, don’t you think Snow would _still_ be yelling about it to this day?”

“He’s a betrayer,” Bailey growled.

“He’s a _hero_,” I snarled back. “He saved our entire world.”

“He killed the Mage!” Mitchell joined in.

“And shacked up with _you_.” Stainton curled back his lips again. “Of all people. Of all _fucking people_, it had to be _you_.”

I levelled Stainton with a bored look. “I’m sensing this is more of a personal attack, rather than about my supposed vampirism.”

“Oh, you’re most certainly a vampire,” he said and gave the camera on the tripod a short pat. “And we’re here to collect evidence on the matter. Settling my personal vendetta is a bonus.”

“Again, I know Snow spent a good deal of time claiming otherwise, but I assure you, I am not a vampire, and I had no part in what happened to your sister, William.”

“You two were the only other people there when she lost her voice!” he roared.

“We were in the Wavering Wood,” I spat. “Both as a student and one of the Mage’s Men, _you_ should know as well as anyone what kind of things can happen in those woods. Snow and I were there, yes, but we had no control over what happened to Philippa.”

“That’s not how her version of the story goes.”

I raised my eyebrow at him. “Oh, really? And what _did_ she _say_ to you?”

Stainton snarled, and that was when they first threatened me with the lighter. That was also when I realized how truly fucked I was.

It was foolhardy, but I asked them why they didn’t bother lighting me up right away if they were so certain of my sins.

“We don’t want you _dead_,” Bailey assured, “we want you _punished_.”

“You won’t get away with hurting anyone any more,” Stainton chimed in. “This time, there will be ample evidence, and you’ll be brought to justice.”

“And how do you intend on getting ‘evidence’?” I mocked. “Enticing me with whatever vermin are hiding out in this warehouse? Can’t imagine termites are terribly juicy.”

“We’re going to wait you out.” Mitchell grinned, showing off the full effect of his impressively mangled teeth. “I wonder how long you can go without something to drink?”

“Same as anyone,” I said. “Three or so days.”

Mitchell’s face stretched apart even more. “Guess we’ll see, won’t we, Pitch?”

I slumped further into my seat. “And _what_ is it you’re expecting to _see_? I’d imagine a man dying of dehydration is a rather horrific sight, but not necessarily anything so monstrous as to call the Coven about.”

“Maybe you’ll enter a bloodlust,” Bailey said. “Or maybe you’ll be driven to desperation and confess.”

“Either way,”—Stainton hit a button on the camera, and a small red light came on—“we’ll capture it all.”

I frowned past the camera at the slimy trio. “Have you thought this through at all? This is assault, kidnapping, and torture. You’re the only ones guilty of inhumanity here.”

“If the Coven decides to punish us for outing you as a blood-sucking monster, then so be it,” Stainton said. “So long as you face the repercussions for your actions.”

At least they were wholly committed to their perverse, specific brand of fascism.

I did my best not to dwell on my circumstance. Obviously it would serve me well if Snow were able to rescue me from this, though there was really no point in holding my breath for it. Last we spoke, he had stormed off—Chomsky knows how long it would take him to even notice I was missing.

Yet, when I heard his voice over the phone, I nearly wept.

I couldn’t expect him to find me—it put too much pressure on him. But, Morgana in a meadow, there was no stopping the panicked swell of desperation in my chest and the bone-aching fear I might not make it out of this as alive as I entered (if at all). And if there was ever something in my life that brought me any comfort, it was _him_. It was the hope that Simon Snow would be his reliably heroic self, despite suffering my years of torment and months of being a shoddy boyfriend.

I didn’t want to ask it of him, though I was painfully relieved to hear his desperation over the line. He was going to try; I would have to try, too.

I attempted to give Snow the only hint to my location I knew: that it’s a warehouse owned by the Mitchell’s. (Some of the cargo is labelled as such, which is the only reason I could remember his family name at all.)

Stainton spelled me before I could finish speaking (which I’m sure he took great pleasure in), and Bailey hung up the call. Mitchell took it all far less well; he panicked and threw a cross at me. Thankfully, he missed.

Things were uneventful after that. They spent a few hours sitting some distance away, keeping an eye on me and playing bloody mobile games and chatting about nothing I cared to overhear.

All I could do was wait. Sit, be an obedient captive, and pray to any god that might listen to a dark creature for Simon Snow to find me before I go mad with hunger.

Though when night came, I began to fear I’d just properly go mad first.

I wouldn’t be sat in the chair all night, they informed me. Instead, I was introduced to the sleeping arrangements they’d set up for me, tucked behind a wall of crates so that I hadn’t noticed it previously.

A coffin. Of course.

They spelled my mouth closed with a **shut your mouth**. It’s a nasty spell that requires a good deal of magic to cast. Whereas **cat got your tongue** silences you while still allowing movement, this spell forcibly clamps the jaws tightly together. Depending on the strength of the magician, it can last for several hours, maybe even days. There’s been records of it being used as means for murder. These three wretched little shits don’t have that kind of magic between them, but Bailey managed to keep me spelled long enough that they got me out of my chair and into the damnable coffin without any concerns of me biting them.

I refused to give them the satisfaction of fighting back or letting them know of the fear pumping through my drying veins.

Once trapped inside, there’s not enough room to wriggle my bound hands to the front of me, so I’m forced to lay there and ignore the ever increasing discomfort of my arms trapped beneath me. I tried to push open the lid with my legs, but they’d foisted crates on top, so it didn’t budge.

Even once I could open my mouth again, it felt no less like I was choking.

I’ve always resented the old adage ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’. It’s a load of fucking rubbish.

Being trapped in a coffin for six weeks didn’t make me stronger. It made me pervasively hungry and traumatized. It in no way better prepared me for this.

None of Simon’s trauma has made him stronger, either. He’s raw and scraped, his insides scooped out. He’s trying to heal, trying to find things new and old to fill himself up with, but he’s just as pervasively hungry and traumatized as I am.

I know these fuckers know that. I know that this is a game to them. Kidnap me at the club, throw me in a coffin—they’re deliberately preying on my trauma.

All their little ransom mind games with Snow were a way of preying on him. Make him think he can save the day, only to strip it all away. Take from him the one thing they think makes him happy.

I’ve been trying not to cry. I didn’t want them to hear me.

I have no idea how long I’ve been in here.

I can’t hold it back any longer.

I turn my face into my shoulder as best I can, and I sob the smallest amount I’m able—as if maybe letting out a little bit of the anguish will ease some of the pressure, like leaking air from an overly inflated tyre.

Crying just means losing more moisture. I lived without food and water for those six weeks with the numpties, but they at least gave me blood. I have no idea how my undead body will handle complete deprivation of nourishment. Will I go feral and tear their throats open? Or will I simply wither away like any dehydrated man might?

I don’t want to find out. I should just get them to light me on fire and be done with it. That’s always seemed like a comforting way to go.

I don’t want to hang all my hopes on Simon Snow. I don’t want to put that pressure on him. I don’t want to drag him from his forced retirement, only for him to finally realize without any misconceptions that he truly is no longer the man he once was. I don’t want to know what that will do to him, not now when he finally seems to be coming around the bend.

Though…if I let myself die here, I think that will hurt him all the more. Maybe he doesn’t love me, maybe he never can, but I have no doubt that he wants to save me. If I let myself succumb without a fight, then my life’s final action will be hurting the one person I swore I would never hurt again.

How deeply fitting that the day I swore that to myself was also the day I stole Philippa’s voice.

Her brother is right. This _is_ what I deserve.

I’ll persist. I’ll give Snow as much time as possible to come for me. Once I can’t hold on any longer, I’ll give William his evidence.

Let the Coven condemn me as they wish. The Stainton’s will have their revenge, the world will be rid of one more dark creature, and Simon Snow will be free of me.

Maybe then he can truly heal, without the vampire heir to the House of Pitch constantly reminding him of the world that’s only sought to hurt him.

I can only hope that Simon knows this isn’t me coddling him. It’s me giving him a gift.

A chance.

BOOK FOUR

SIMON

It’s half past seven, and I’m stumbling up the stairs to Fiona and Baz’s flat for the second time this morning. Penny and I first arrived just before five, both of us bleary-eyed yet buzzing with anxiety over finding Baz. Fiona spelled us up some tea. I sucked down half a pot all by myself while listening to the two of them discuss the intricacies of tracking spells.

Soon enough, I was in that weird limbo between absolutely knackered, right fucking out of my mind with worry, and just a little too hopped up on caffeine. I couldn’t listen to them talk each other in circles over technique any longer. I felt like my blood was flowing in all the wrong directions, like all my normal processes were frazzled and turned around and causing traffic jams in my extremities.

I needed to move. To breathe some fresh air.

I offered to run out and get us some coffee from the Starbucks nearby. Penny agreed (_’I like their lattes’_) and Fiona rolled her eyes (_’there’s a reason I don’t own a coffee maker, kid’_).

I ordered myself a regular coffee and Penny’s latte, and I also picked up a whole bag of assorted breakfast foods. It wasn’t until the barista was handing over my order that I realized I automatically ordered Baz’s usual drink, too.

I took a seat. I don’t really like Baz’s weird candy bar of a drink, but I drank it anyway. I didn’t want it to go to waste, and I definitely didn’t want Penny or Fiona seeing that I ordered it and thinking I’ve cracked.

(Though, maybe I have. Because I sat in a Starbucks at six in the morning, drinking my kidnapped boyfriend’s drink, and trying not to cry.)

Anyway, yeah. Now I’m climbing back up Fiona’s steps, because I’m still feeling strung out and don’t want to take the lift. The two of them are as I left them, pouring over books—Pen doesn’t even pause as I press her latte into her hand.

I take a seat and sip my coffee and chew on an egg and ham croissant. And then I eat a sausage sandwich. And then I keep eating.

Half past eight rolls around. They both decide to take a small break in order to pick at the food (what’s left of it).

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Fiona says with this suspicious tone, peering at me over another cuppa.

“Not got much to contribute,” I say.

Fiona frowns. “Never stopped you before.”

I shrug. “I’m thinking.”

Fiona raises her eyebrow at me. Baz obviously learned it from her.

“Well…given your job, I was hoping maybe you had some tips on how to track vampires, but since you haven’t mentioned it, seems like not, yeah?”

“No, sorry, no fancy vampire honing devices in my line of work.”

I nodded. “Right. So...I was thinking....” Penny’s peering at me now, too. I take a bite of a lemon muffin. “What if Nicodemus knows something?”

Penny frowns—probably because I’m talking with my mouth full again. “You think vampires can sniff each other out?”

“We’re _not_ going to Nico,” Fiona growls. “That’s off the table.”

“I don’t know if they can sense other vampires,” I say to Penny. “Didn’t seem like Baz knew how to do that. But maybe Nicodemus knows another trick, or weakness, or something like that.”

“What did I just say?” Fiona snaps.

“Simon might have a point—”

I frown right back at Fiona. “Why shouldn’t we try anything possible to get Baz back?”

“Going to the vampires and asking for help is not an option!”

“It’s not just any random vampire, it’s a guy we all know—a guy _you_ know, Fiona.”

“You know what my job is, boyo,” she says through her teeth. “You know I can’t waltz in there.”

“I didn’t say _you_.” I cock my jaw. “I’ll go.”

Fiona barks out a laugh “What makes you think he’d give you any information?”

“I don’t know. It’s worth a shot, innit?”

“You’ve got no magic and no sword, Chosen One.” Fiona gestures dramatically with her mug. “But if you want to walk into a den of vampires smelling like desperation, go right ahead. It’s your funeral.”

Penny unleashes a disgruntled sigh. “Obviously Simon can’t go in there by himself—”

“Yes, I can,” I say to her. “I’ve been there before. I’ll be fine.”

“You had Baz before,” Penny points out, as if I don’t remember that. “You really can’t walk in there alone, Si, and I think maybe Fiona and I are better off spending our time figuring out how to better power this spell of hers.”

I growl and push myself to my feet. “Yeah, fine, I get it.”

“Where are you going?” Penny calls as I stalk out of the room.

“To make myself useful.”

I still haven’t come up with any genius ideas on how to find Baz. But there’s one thing I do know: when we _do_ find him, he’s going to need a few things.

I head into Baz’s room, find his fancy leather weekender bag in his closet, and stuff it with a change of clothes, pants, and socks. I also pack the lounge clothes I’ve left here, in case he wants something more comfortable to wear than trousers and a button down. (I try to fold it nicely.)(Don’t think I succeed.)

I put one of his hairbands around my wrist and stuff his wallet and wand in the inside pocket of the bag, then I head out of Fiona’s flat.

I’m too hopped up on caffeine and anxiety to be sat there any longer. I’m fed and I’m annoyed and I’m not any help to them. They can research and squabble over spell boosting methods all day; that’s never been my style, even when I had magic.

I hit the pavement. I shop, filling up the bag with other necessities: water, sports drink, protein bars, salt and vinegar crisps, and a container of pig’s blood wrapped in ice packs.

By eleven, I’m back to being sat in Baz’s car, completely at a loss.

It’s great the bag’s in order and all, but it's useless if I can't find him.

It’s coming up on twenty-four hours since Baz was captured, and we’ve not got much. Yeah, Fiona’s got the method she used last time, but unless they can come up with some way to super super _super_ charge it, there’s no chance they can turn a spell that last took weeks into something that will work in only a few hours—even _with_ things narrowed down to south west London.

I’ve got to figure this out. There’s got to be something we’re missing....

Fiona doesn’t think it’s someone from the Old Families. Penny doesn’t think it’s someone from the Coven.

They're both smarter than me, and they both understand the politics far better, too.

Supposing they're both right, who does that leave?

No one all that notable. No one we'd recognize.

Is that how they got Baz? Because he didn't know who they were, didn't perceive them as a threat?

A flash of fear rips through me, dragging along the thought: what if it's the Humdrum? What if it was someone with _my_ face?

It's an irrational fear. I get those sometimes, lately. Ever since...well. Ever since everything.

Because I'm the one who stole magic from the atmosphere. And I'm the one who murdered a man.

My therapist tells me that's normal, too—the irrational fears, I mean. That I have to let go of the blame. That none of it was _really_ my fault.

The Mage did something to me, made me into what I am. Was. I'll never know what he did, but it's enough. It's enough to remind myself that it isn't totally my fault. And to remind myself that I had no idea my words would kill him.

There's no sense dwelling on the Mage right now.

All I can do is keep driving around and hoping for a sign.

Before I know it, I'm navigating in circles around south west London again, only stopping to fill up the car (and grab a quick bite).

Until sundown, that is.

BAZ

I don't know what time it is when they come banging on the coffin.

"How are we feeling, Basilton?"

I don't answer them. They bang again, bother me some more.

"Think he's dead?" Mitchell whispers.

"He just wants us to open it up," Stainton grunts back, then he raises his voice: "If you don't have anything to say to us, we'll leave you alone for a while. How does six hours sound?"

_Awful_, I think. _Like I'll lose what little of myself I might have left_, I think.

I say nothing.

And then there's silence.

All I can do is lie there and think of him.

Bronze hair. Blue eyes.

It's so much more real this time. I know the feel of his lips. I know the taste of him. I know the sounds he makes when we touch and fuck.

Knowing doesn't make it much easier.

But it does keep me sane.

For now.

SIMON

Once night comes, I find myself circling around to the one place I was expressly told not to go.

I've never been terribly good at following directions.

Penny's checked in a few times. She and Fiona have travelled to Hampshire. The magic hasn't come back there (yet?), but Fiona said she has some supplies at the estate. Weird, ritualistic, dark magic stuff that they'll need to power the spell.

I don't want to ask too many questions.

Not to them, anyway.

I park near Covent Garden. I retrace the steps Baz and I took eight months ago.

So much has changed. Not here. With us. Last time I was here, Baz and I were only on truce. I hadn't come to terms that I liked him.

He hadn't nearly died in a fire.

I saved him then. It wasn't elegant, but when am I ever? I kissed him and I saved him and I wish—Merlin, I fucking _wish_—it could be that easy to save him again.

I can recall our path so clearly. I slip around the same corners, head for the same hidden club—

I don't make it there.

I forget how swiftly vampires can move. (I don't ever get to see Baz in action.)

Faster than I can blink, I'm being slammed against a wall, face first, the bricks scraping open my cheek. There's tepid breath in my ear and taught, spindly fingers against my neck.

"What are you doing here, kitten?" the breath rasps in my ear.

"Baz needs help," l grunt.

The hand loosens—but only enough to yank me around, spinning me so that it's the back of my head that now thwacks against the brick wall.

Nicodemus grimaces at me. His lips are pulled back, the holes in his gums on full display.

"Basil needs help, and so you come here? Into a den of vampires?" he scoffs at me. I just nod within his hold. "You're either aggressively stupid or unimaginably brave. And I'm thinking it's the former, little one."

I swallow against the cold tightness of Nicodemus's hand. "He's been kidnapped."

"Again?"

"Yeah."

"Why should I care?"

"Because," I tell him steadily, "who's to say you all won't be next?"

Nicodemus's grip tightens. "You think I'd help _you two_ to save myself?" He barks out a sad laugh. "Don't forget that it's _because_ of him and you that Ebeneza died."

I don't let myself flinch. "No. You can't blame that on me,” I say. “Ebb died because of the Mage." I set my jaw. "And I'm the one who killed him."

Nicodemus glares for a long while. His uneven nails dig into the flesh of my neck.

Then he shoves himself away from me and steps back.

"I don't know anything about what happened to Basilton. You can tell that to Fi."

I relax against the wall and rub my throat. "She's not who sent me. I came on my own."

"Good. Otherwise I'd be doubting her sanity. Would much rather doubt yours."

Nicodemus sweeps away from me, but I follow.

"I told you I know nothing," he growls over his shoulder. "So fuck off."

"Do you have any guesses?" I ask, not giving an inch. "Can you think of anyone who would have done this?"

Nicodemus pauses. He worries his tongue against his gums.

“No,” he finally says. “Only the Mage. And it’s obviously not him.”

“Obviously,” I say. “It has to—oh. _Oh_.”

Nicodemus turns to me. I stumble back a step.

“Not the Mage…,” I say.

“What are you on about now?”

“_Fuck_—”

I have to go.

I run off and manage to burst out a “thanks!” as I barrel my way back to Baz’s car as fast as I can.

PENELOPE

Fiona groans when the Doctor Who theme song rings out. I hurriedly set down the artefact I’m holding and fish my phone from my pocket.

“Hullo, S—”

“Penny!” Simon blurts from the other end. “Do you know of any way I can get in touch with Philippa?”

“What?” I reposition my glasses. “Philippa…Stainton?”

“Yes!”

“Um. No.... Si, what’s this about?”

“You and Fiona were both right, Pen,” he says. He’s talking fast and loud, and he’s out of breath. “It’s not about the Families or the Coven. It’s the _Mage!_”

Fiona frowns at me from across the divining circle we’re carving up. I turn away from her, even though that won’t help diminish Simon’s booming from leaking through.

“Simon, the Mage is dead,” I say slowly, softly.

“No—_fuck—_yeah, Penny, I _know_ that—” he grunts. “I mean it’s his _Men_. This, all of this, it’s about getting revenge for what happened to the Mage.”

Nicks and Slick....

“How do you know?” I ask. “What happened?”

“It hit me all of a sudden. Look, I’ve got to talk to Philippa,” he insists. “Can you help?”

“No, I— All I really remember about her is that she was Agatha’s roommate....”

“Aggie....”

“Yeah.”

Simon curses under his breath.

“All right,” he says. “How are things on your end?”

“Good, I think.” I turn back to Fiona, who shoots me a dirty look for slacking off. “We’re in a field just outside the hole in Hampshire, with a whole pile of contraband,”—Fiona gives me another pointed glare—“and I’m sure she’s going to **ix-nay** me on all of this after, so I’ll spare you.”

“Got it. You’re on the right track, though?”

I sweep my eyes around the mostly-finished circle we’ve carved into the field. “I think so. We might have to set fire to some things, but I hear Pitches are good at that.”

Simon groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“We’ll keep in touch. Good luck, Si.”

“You, too.”

SIMON

I can’t call Agatha.

She never really wanted to be involved with my adventures—she always got dragged along somehow anyway. The least I can do is make sure she doesn’t get bothered by me again.

Thankfully it doesn’t take much cuticle-chewing to remember there’s another Wellbelove who can give me the info I need—the one I actually still talk to.

I give Dr. Wellbelove a ring. He’s wary about giving out Philippa’s mobile number to me—doctor-patient confidentiality. I must sound on the brink of going mad though, because he caves without me even having to explain the whole thing.

I punch Philippa’s number into my phone and almost make the stupid mistake of calling her. Manage to stop myself in time. Instead, I send a text.

—_Hey this is Simon Snow do u have a minute?_

I wait for her reply and thunk my head against the steering wheel of Baz’s car.

How could I have been so fucking stupid? How could it take me this long to realize who’s responsible for this?

Baz tried to give me hints. _‘I took a golf club to the head after leaving the bathroom,’_ he said.

Noah was wearing his golfing clothes—even _mentioned_ golf to me, for Merlin’s sake.

And I’m the one who let William into the bathroom.

(_My fault, my fault—_)

I give my head another thunk against the wheel.

Everything from the past thirty-six hours swirls through my head, torturing me.

‘_We didn’t want to believe the Mage’s Heir would betray him like that.’_

‘_We lied. Just like him. Just like you.’_

They hate that the Mage is dead. They hate that Baz and I had a part in it. They hate that Baz and I are together. They hate that Baz is getting away with being a vampire.

And if William really is involved, I’m sure this is personal for him, too.

I check my phone even though I didn’t hear a notification. I scowl and gnash my teeth—it makes the scrapes on my cheek hurt more, but that’s fine. Keeps me focused.

I’ve been so fucking stupid.

I packed all my thoughts about the Mage away at the bottom of a list, thinking he couldn’t hurt me any more. (_’Stop it, stop hurting me!’_) But it’s not over just because I want it to be, or just because I’m powerless now.

While I’ve been avoiding it, they’ve been stewing in it.

Baz getting kidnapped at the club wasn’t a coincidence. And—my stomach lurches at the thought—I worry there’s another page from the Mage’s handbook they took as well.

I can’t go off and I don’t have a sword, but if I find out that they put Baz in a coffin, I might kill them with my bare hands.

My mobile buzzes, starling me out of the thick rage I’m choking on.

—_Hello, Simon. Sure, I have time. What’s going on?_

I breathe heavily and stare at the keyboard. I haven’t thought through what to say.

—_I think Baz n ur brother might be together rn. Know anything about it?_

I keep staring. I can see that Philippa is typing. And then nothing. Typing, and then nothing. For an infuriatingly long time.

I wanted to hope she didn’t actually have a part in this. I wanted to hope that I only ran into her there on accident. Her slow response is making me think otherwise.

I can hear Baz’s voice in my head, snapping _‘use your words’_. It’s so cruel—and appropriate. I snort bitterly.

This is all so fucked up.

—_I don’t know much. I swear I don’t. Will only told me that he wanted to talk with Baz and that I should keep you occupied until they left the club together._

It’s an effort not to crush my phone in my hands.

—_Left the club together isn’t how id phrase hitting someone w a golf club n kidnapping them_

There’s no pause this time. She sends a few messages in quick succession:

—_I’m sorry. Oh Merlin, I’m so sorry._

_ I didn’t know._

_ I swear I didn’t know they would do that._

_ Please believe me, Simon._

_ Will swore he wouldn’t hurt any one._

I don’t think I can trust her. (I don’t think I’m going to be able to trust anyone other than a select few ever again.)(Add it to the list of things I’ll need to bring up with my therapist next week.)(If I live that long.) I just have to hope she’ll answer me truthfully.

—_Where r they Philippa?_

—_I don’t know._

_ He didn’t say._

_ I swear._

—_Does a warehouse ring any bells?_

—_No…_

I hit the steering wheel with the side of my fist. (The horn goes off.) I’m running through every string of curses I can think of when I see Philippa’s typing again.

—_Wait. Yes, maybe._

_ Tory’s mum has a big online shop. She has a warehouse._

—_Who the fuck is tory??_

—_Tory Mitchell_

—_ok who the fuck is tory Mitchell???_

I fling myself out of the car and start pacing laps around it as I wait for Philippa’s response. I count the laps as I go.

Twelve laps and a bleeding thumb later, I get a notification.

It’s a selfie of a few of the Men, smiling proudly in their uniforms. William’s the one taking the shot, and there are some faces I only half-recognize. (Premal’s in there, too.)(I think I’ll leave that part out when I tell Penny about this.)

—_Tory’s the one in the back left, with the reddish brown hair._

I recognize him. Weedy dude, skittish. Glared at me sometimes. I often saw him and Stephen behind the wheel of those military trucks the Mage’s Men used for cargo hauling.

That’s when it hits me.

William and Philippa aren’t the only near-collisions I had.

There was the car, too.

—_Does one of them have a beige Jeep Cherokee? Ur brother or Tory or Noah Bailey?_

—_My brother does, yes…_

I throw myself back in the Jag and start it up.

—_Do u know where the warehouse is?_

—_Somewhere in Merton. That’s all I know._

Good enough. I wrench the car out of its spot fast as I can and go speeding down the A24. My phone keeps rattling with a few more messages from Philippa. They’re all apologies. I take my time thumbing out a response while I drive (Penny and Baz would both kill me if they knew).

—_Im sorry too_

_ that u got wrapped up in shit bw me n Baz again_

_ and that im about to beat the shit out of ur brother_

BAZ

I don’t know what time it is when they spell my mouth shut again and drag me out of the coffin. There are no windows in the warehouse, only a small pane of glass in the door which helps me determine it’s daytime. I assume it’s early, judging by how tired they look and by the cups of Starbucks they sip from once I’m secured to the chair once more.

The smell of the coffee makes my gut churn. Bailey laughs at the pathetic rumbling sounds.

“Is the vampire boy thirsty?” he mocks. Crowley, I’ve never drank from a human before, but I would love to show this arrogant swine exactly how thirsty I am.

“He’s pissed himself,” Mitchell mutters, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that locking a man up for an extended period of time might well lead to such a thing. Feckless imbecile.

This entire experience has given me a better appreciation for my first kidnapping. At least the numpties gave me blood, and didn’t notice if my clothes were soiled, didn’t speak to me at all even—and they certainly didn’t smell the least bit appetizing.

These three, though.... Vendetta aside, I’ve never felt so compelled to tear open someone’s neck. I won’t make it to three days at this rate. I’ll be lucky if I make it to two.

The camera is pointed at me, the little red light on.

“Feel like confessing yet, Basilton?” Stainton taunts.

Pretty soon I won’t have a choice.

The crush of my jaws under the spell is doing most of the work of keeping me from chomping one of them. (They’re brazen in their closeness when my mouth is trapped shut.) I don’t think I’ll be able to control my fangs once my jaw springs loose, even with all these crosses littered about.

_If you’re going to save me, Simon Snow, now would be a good time._

SIMON

Turns out that driving around a significantly smaller area and knowing that I’m looking for a 2010 beige Jeep Cherokee still doesn’t make it a cakewalk to find Baz.

They’re probably working in shifts of some kind. William’s car might not be even be around.

Or Philippa’s lying.

This could all be a trick to make me waste time.

I’m terrified and out of options. All I can do is circle the car parks in Merton all night. Again and again.

Fiona and Penny have been in that bloody field outside Hampshire for hours, casting and casting. Pen told me to only interrupt if it was an emergency or if I learned something new. I sent her a text while I drove around Merton, letting her know about my conversation with Philippa and what I remembered about the Jeep. Penny didn’t respond, but I did see she read it.

Around seven in the morning, Penny finally replies:

—_We’ve narrowed it down to either Kingston or Merton._

I’m so fucking relieved, I howl and punch the wheel again.

I pull up a map of the area. Kingston and Merton.... New Maiden seems like the best place to keep prowling, then.

It’s quarter past eleven when I finally spot the Jeep.

I know it’s his—I hadn’t caught the whole number plate at the club, didn’t even bother to try, but I do distinctly remember the LO60 part, thinking it looked like the word ‘logo’.

The warehouse is a small place with an outdoor car park, which made spotting the Jeep easier. There’s one story to the flat-topped building and only four garages, each with a shutter door and a standard door, too.

I park around the block, take out my mobile, and call Penny.

“What is it?” Fiona snaps at me over the line.

“Why are you picking up Penny’s phone?” I blurt. “Is she all right?”

“She’s _fine_. She’s in the zone, and I’m taking a smoke break.”

At first, I’m annoyed Fiona’s so unconcerned for Baz that she’d stop for a fag, but then I remember no one else’s magic works the way mine did. There’s no infinite supply—they _have_ to take breaks. All these hours later, I’m surprised they can still cast at all.

“What are you calling for, kid? This better be good.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say it. After so long, and so little sleep, and so much hard work, it’s difficult to fathom.

“I think I found Baz,” I say slowly.

“…come the fuck again?”

I close my eyes and let myself believe it. I can’t fill my words with magic any more, but I _can_ fill them with conviction.

“_I found Baz._”

I’m explaining about the Jeep and New Maiden. Fiona’s cursing (in her excited way, not her angry way). There’s scrambling, and then Penny’s on the phone while Fiona makes some kind of commotion in the background.

I explain it all again to Penny.

The more I reiterate it, the more it’s real.

I found him. I found Baz.

It’s over.

“Text me the address,” Penny says. “Wait for us. Don’t move.”

“But—”

“I meant it,” Penny insists. “—Fiona, how fast can we be there?”

“An hour,” I hear her call out.

“Penny,” I grunt. “I’m not— I’m not _waiting_.”

“_Simon_. You can’t go in there alone. You have no way of protecting yourself _or him_.”

“I know that—”

“So _wait_,” Penny says, like she’s asking, not demanding. “I know you want to rush in, Si. I get it. Baz is tough—he can hold out one more hour.”

I want to argue with her. I can’t. Baz _is_ tough. And I’m powerless.

I’ll only put him in danger.

I found him. But I can’t save him.

BAZ

They’ve been operating in shifts. (I could hear the squabbling about it through the coffin.) This morning, I’ve had the misfortune of being babysat by Stainton.

I’m not sure if it’s cruelness or kindness behind them deciding to keep me strapped to the chair, rather than shove me back in the coffin once they had their fun jeering at me over coffee.

As nice as it is to not be trapped in a coffin, the steady surveillance of Stainton’s eyes and the camera’s lens mean that my unveiling is imminent.

I squeeze my teeth together in hopes I can keep my fangs in, even without the assistance of the **shut your mouth** spell. I stare at one of the crosses closest to my feet until my eyes burn too badly. Then I look away. Once the pain subsides, I stare again.

That’s how I pass my time, trying to cling to sanity. All while Stainton plays mobile games and shoots me cocky grins.

I could kill him. I could let loose what little control I have left, use up the last drops of my strength to break free of my bonds, and I could have him drained and dropped within moments.

Bailey relies on force, Mitchell relies on the Zippo, and Stainton relies on his tongue. He’s the easiest target to take down.

Why not? I’ve already irreparably ruined one Stainton’s life; might as well ruin another.

I fix my gaze back on the cross and do my best to remind myself of my humanity.

SIMON

I spend ten minutes pacing.

I spend another few minutes checking the contents of the bag I packed for Baz, making sure the blood is still cold. (I’ve been replacing the ice packs now and then.) It is, so I toss the packs to let it warm up some. Baz won’t like it, but it’ll be better than nothing.

I sling the bag on my shoulder and go back to pacing.

I don’t let myself get too close to the warehouse. I don’t want to be seen, and I don’t want to feel too tempted—but it’s impossible to not keep coming back around to check. I don’t know what I’m checking _for_ exactly. That it’s still there, I guess. Not a mirage.

I’ve just got this feeling like I if I let the place out of my sight, it’ll go up in smoke.

BAZ

Mitchell comes to relieve Stainton eventually.

I hoped that Mitchell twirling the lighter around would discourage my fantasies of relinquishing myself to bloodlust, but the desire isn’t squelched in the slightest.

My chair is at the cement back wall of the warehouse. The exit is at the other end, roughly thirty feet away. Everything in between is wood.

Mitchell’s too nervous to get close to me. Unless I’m spelled, he hangs back a solid six feet or so.

Can I free myself, dash for him, and break his neck before he throws the lighter?

I fear not.

If he succeeds, can I make it the rest of the way to the door before the flames catch me?

Doubtful.

I shouldn’t try.

I also can’t wait on Snow any longer; I’m at my limit.

I’ll give them what they want. I’ll let them out me as a monster.

“Mitchell,” I say. It’s the first I’ve spoken since they put me in the coffin. The sounds tear through my parched throat like sandpaper on a wound.

Mitchell startles visibly. “What?”

“Call your friends,” I rasp. “I’m ready to confess.” Before the words are even out of my mouth, I can feel my restraint vanish, as if a switch was flipped.

He stares at me with wild eyes. “Y-you—? Fuck.” Mitchell scrambles for his mobile and seems to be thumbing out a message.

I don’t mean to let myself go quite so completely, but there’s no stopping it now. Even as I wrangle to keep myself in check, my vampiric side wrenches itself free of its limits. It’s the desperate response of a creature on the brink of death. Everything goes into overdrive for one final push—

Adrenaline rushes through me. My fangs burst forth and my mouth fills with what meagre saliva it can still produce. All of my senses narrow towards Mitchell—I can hear his pulse booming through my skull, can smell every whiff of his emotional response, can imagine precisely how he’ll taste. My head throbs with the agonizing desire to launch my face into his neck.

_Don’t_, I try to remind myself. _You can’t_—

One side of me drools and snaps, struggling against the bindings. The other side is fading and futile, struggling against the transformation.

Mitchell whips his head up once he’s done messaging the others. (I can hear the movement of all his muscles.) He screams at the sight of me. I’ve never heard anything so thrilling in my entire life. My body sings with the reverberation.

That is, until Mitchell panics, and all my senses fill with the sight and sound and scent of fire.

It’s a very sobering experience.

SIMON

I’m passing the warehouse on lap number thirty-seven when I see Stainton coming out. I hide behind a car across the street to watch him get into his Jeep and drive off.

(I’d considered slashing his tyres. Figured that would make it too obvious we’re onto them.)

I’m pissed as hell Stainton’s leaving without me being able to rearrange his fucking face. I’ll just have to direct my anger on whoever’s in there now—there’s no way they’re leaving Baz unattended. I wonder if it’s Noah.

I briefly regret not having picked up a baseball bat or something. Noah deserves a good hit to the head. An eye for an eye, and all that. (I shudder at my own thoughts. **An eye for an eye** is a wicked spell. Guess it’s a good thing I can’t accidentally cast things any more.)

I stay crouched behind the car for now. My nerves get the best of me soon enough, so I shoot Penny a text:

—_eta?_

—_Getting close,_ she replies right away._ Satnav says fifteen minutes_. _Coven’s been called and are on their way, too._

I breathe. Fifteen minutes. We can wait another fifteen minutes.

That’s when I hear a scream.

I’m running for Baz before I even have time to think.

The door’s flung open just as I’m approaching—Tory bursts out, screaming his bloody head off. I clasp my hands together, raise them up, and then bring them back down swinging—right into the side of his head. Which sends the _other_ side of his head into the open door.

He crumples and acts as the perfect door prop.

BAZ

There’s so much fire.

I’ve burst free of the ropes and chains; it doesn’t matter.

I stay sat in the chair and simply stare.

The flames haven’t caught on to everything yet. They’re taking their time, slowly crawling towards me. There’s still enough space for a normal person to get to the door, but even if I somehow managed not to go up like flash paper, I don’t think I have the strength left in me to run for it.

There’s nothing left in me at all.

No energy to escape, no tears to cry.

Only thoughts of Simon Snow, and how he’ll never forgive me for this.

I close my eyes.

“Baz!”

“I’m sorry,” I tell the figment of his voice in my head. My words slur around my massive teeth; I don’t even have the resources to retract them. “I never say it because I don’t know how I could stop once I start.”

I said I wouldn’t hurt him any longer, but I wasn’t strong enough.

One more for the road, then.

“_Baz!_”

I open my eyes to the hazy image of flames and dragon wings.

My first delirious thought is that it’s Simon.

My second delirious thought is that it’s a dragon.

My first _coherent_ thought is that _Aleister fucking Crowley_ it really _is_ Simon.

“Snow!” His name rips through me—a vicious coughing fit follows, doubling me over.

He’s kneeling in front of me immediately, grabbing me by the shoulders, puffing and frantic.

“Baz, Merlin, fuck—” He presses trembling hands into my hair, pushing it back from my face. “You’re okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you. Penny and Fiona are on their way, just hang on—”

I groan as the coughing subsides. I try to shake my head away from his touch. His cuticles are torn to shreds and his cheek is scraped. It’s too much, even over the stench of the encroaching fire.

“Snow, no…,” I hiss. _I can’t_— “You have to go. You can’t be here—”

He _laughs. _Snow lets me go and starts rummaging through a bag on his shoulder. (Is that my bag?) “This is exactly where I want to be,” he says. Then, he’s thrusting my wand into my hand. “Here.” He gives me a brilliant smile, brighter than any flame. “Make a wish.”

Oh, Simon.

Perfect, heroic, idiotic Simon.

I sink off the chair into his arms.

“I can’t cast,” I lisp. “My fangs.... I’m too drained.... You have to _go_—”

“I’m not going without you!”

I moan and shake my head again. All I can think of is his scent.

Suddenly, my nose is flooded with a heavy stench of blood, and a surge of fear runs through me—

Snow presses a cool container of pig’s blood at my lips. “Drink, Baz,” he urges. “It’ll be gross, sorry. Might make you appreciate when I burn it,” he laughs again—then he coughs, as the smoke gets thicker.

“You’re a moron,” I whimper before chugging back as much of the blood as I can handle. It’s disgusting, and I’m over eager, and it spills down the front of me as neither Snow nor I are steady enough to handle the container well.

I drink it too fast. It’s still not enough—my fangs won’t recede, though some of the urgency subsides.

“Make a wish!” Nothing. I snarl and will my magic to cooperate. “_**Make a wish!**_”

Snow gasps as a swath of flames is extinguished. I cast again, and again, trying to push more of my faint magic behind it.

It takes all the strength I have, but it’s not enough. The flames spread faster than I can put them out, and my fangs are still in the way. By the fifth cast, I’m depleted. My arm drops limply to my side.

“Baz!” Snow shakes me. “You can’t give up.”

“I’m tapped out....”

Snow grunts in frustration. He can’t power me like last time.

“You have to get out of here,” I tell him.

“_No_,” he snarls. He grabs either side of my face and stares me down. “I’m not leaving you. We’re not— We can’t do that any more, Baz. No more walking away from each other.”

“I know it’s your speciality, Simon, but I need you to not be a fucking idiot just this once,” I say. “You can still make it out of this all right.”

“No. I can’t.” Snow knocks his forehead into mine, hard. “God. You arsehole. What did I tell you? I said no more flames, didn’t I?”

“My sincerest apologies.”

Snow tries to laugh once more; the smoke doesn’t let him. I yank the neck of his tee shirt up over his nose as he coughs.

“_Go_, Snow. While you still can!”

“You never listen.” He pulls the shirt back down and pushes his hands into my hair again, gripping me. “I said I can’t lose you, too, and you swore it would never happen. I’m not leaving— not _living_ without you, Baz.” He shoves a kiss to my mouth, despite my fangs and the blood on my face. “How many times are you going to make me walk through fire to kiss you until you get that through your pretty skull?”

“This is the last time, I promise.” I push him weakly. “_Go_.”

There’s a crash as one of the walls of crates collapses in on itself. Snow glances over his shoulder at it.

“Simon. _Please_.”

“I can’t,” Snow says gently. “It’s too late.”

Snow’s closeness and his wings block my view of the impinging flames—he’s all I see. Backlit, resplendent, a god. Our lazy morning seems like forever ago.

I couldn’t convince him, and I can’t spell him to safety.

All I can do is kiss him.

This is what I’ve always deserved, but I wanted better for him.

Simon Snow shouldn’t die kissing me.

Still…I choose him, and if he chooses…_this, _well, then I’m not strong enough to stop him.

He’s always stronger than me.

We kiss until there’s no more air for it, and then we keep going anyway.

SIMON

I thought Baz could spell away the flames without my help.

And then I thought I could just sit with him and hold him until Penny and Fiona showed up.

I don’t know why I thought those things. Because I’m bad at thinking, I guess.

I can’t just will us a happy ending. I did that once already (not the one I expected, but one I appreciated). I don’t have the power to do it again.

I don’t want to watch Baz burst into flames—it’s a fear that’s filled my nightmares too many times. I _am_ glad, though, that it’ll be quick for him.

(It won’t be like that for me. That’s fine. It means I can hold him through all of it.)

There’s another crash behind us. I curl over Baz more, kiss him harder, envelop him with all of me.

The heat’s insane. It’s worse than when I would go off, so much worse. It must be right up on us now.

I just wish I could buy us a few more minutes....

Baz flinches when another crash lands directly to my left. I instinctively pull him closer and wrap my wings around him.

“Snow—”

“I’ve got you, Baz,” I say as softly as I can, given how loud the fire is. “I’m with you.”

“_Simon_—”

“Shut up, love.”

I try to kiss him more; he nudges me away.

“Fuck off, Simon, _look!”_

Baz is staring at my left wing, curled over and around him. The fire’s glowing through the membrane and lighting us up to look like we’re already in flames.

Which we should be.

Except…we’re not.

The fire is licking at my wing. I see it. But I can’t feel it. It never catches.

“What—”

“_Crowley_, Simon,” Baz marvels hoarsely, “you’re _fireproof_.”

_Oh._

Looks like I can buy us those extra minutes we need after all.

* * *

Penny and Fiona come busting in, and despite how drained their magic is, they’re able to get all the fire put out. They **clear the air** to get rid of the smoke, then they blast Baz and me with healing spells. (Mostly Baz, obviously.)

They each attempt some **clean as a whistle**s on Baz. He’s so well wrecked and they’re so tapped out, it doesn’t do much.

With imminent death and the dangers of smoke inhalation no longer as much of a concern, I start rooting through the bag again.

“I brought you clothes,” I say to him. “Figure you want to change before everyone starts hugging you, yeah?”

Baz gives me a wry smirk. “Yeah.”

Fiona sniffles once and tucks her wand away. “C’mon, Penelope, let’s give him some privacy.”

Penny and I exchange tired smiles before her and Fiona go off to mill about at the door. I don’t know if Penny can tell how grateful I am. I’ll try to find the words for it later.

“That means you too,” Baz huffs at me lowly.

I blink at him. “I’ll help you.”

“Snow,” Baz groans. “I’m quite literally sat in my own excrement at the moment, so would you kindly fuck off?”

“Just shut up and let me help you, you pretentious tosser.” I lay out the two clothing options for him. “Which look would you like? Classic Baz or ‘I like to wear my boyfriend’s chavvy clothes when no one’s looking’ Baz?”

He only stares at me for a moment.

And then he laughs. One of his shy and honest laughs—the ones I never got to see at Watford—where he tucks his head down and puts his hand over his face and softly lets loose. He’s still so weak and dehydrated—it’s a nice sound even so.

I laugh, too. I take his hand and tug it against my own face to kiss it.

“I love you, Baz.”

Baz’s breath stutters. He pulls his head up to look at me.

“…what?”

“I love you.”

“You— Crowley,” Baz moans. “_This_ is the time you pick to tell me that?”

I shrug, grinning as I keep kissing his knuckles. “Yeah. It’s true, so yeah.”

“Simon—”

“It’s an all the time thing,” I insist into his skin. “It doesn’t go away even when you’re a prick, or when your fangs are out, or when you’re covered in piss and whatever else. Okay? You’ve got nothing you need to hide from me.”

“You’re an idiot.” His voice is whispered and wet as he leans in to kiss me. “Incorrigible. A disaster.”

“I’m fireproof.”

* * *

I get Baz cleaned up and changed (he picks his normal clothes, because he doesn’t want the Coven seeing him in mine—wanker), then I step aside to let Fiona and Penny fuss over him.

Tory’s still out cold. Baz tells us about the camera (which definitely didn’t survive the fire), and that Tory messaged the others to come back.

Penny, Baz, and I step outside and pretend we don’t know that Fiona’s using her last dregs of magic to alter Tory’s memories. Wilful blindness, and all that.

Fiona and I ambush William and Noah when they show up. I take far too much satisfaction in socking the shit out of them. Baz stares down his nose at the whole scene, gaze absolutely dripping with icy contempt. Honestly, I think it’s more terrifying than my punches.

The Coven arrives. They take the Men into custody and get the briefest of reports from Baz. We don’t need to pressure them—they agree Baz needs rest, first and foremost, so we’re freed soon enough.

Eventually, we get Baz into Fiona’s car. (She lets him take the front seat this time. Without comment.)(She’s getting soft.) I give him the bag of supplies and make him promise to eat and drink more. Then Penny and I hop in Baz’s car (which he’s none too pleased about because his priorities are bollocksed up). I follow Fiona to their flat.

During the drive, I thank Penny. For everything. It’s not nearly enough, but I know she wouldn’t want me to make a big deal out of it. We spend most of the drive in comfortable silence, holding hands.

Baz wants a shower first thing when we get in, even though he’s pretty well clean by now. I go with him, partly to hold him up, and partly because we both still reek of smoke. Makes me realize how familiar that scent used to be. I don’t miss it.

For once in his life, Baz does the absolute bare minimum in the shower.

(He wears my clothes this time. He still looks fit as hell.)

Fiona’s set out tea and biscuits by the time we return. We’re sat close in the living room. It’s awkward, but nice. Baz and I nearly died. I can hardly wrap my head around it. There’s a lot to process. Which none of us are ready for—we’re all trying to keep up a conversation about anything else until we’re too knackered to continue.

Fiona passes out in her room; Penny, on the couch. Baz and I crawl into his bed and wrap around each other immediately. I blanket a wing over us.

There’s a lot that still needs to be done.

We’ll be part of another investigation.

I’ll have to confront a lot more stuff about the Mage.

I’m all right with that. I’m ready now.

“You’re thinking,” Baz grumbles. “Your tail’s flopping about.”

“Oh.” I tuck it around Baz’s leg instead—he likes that. “Sorry. Was just thinking about how we’ll have to go back on trial.”

Baz stiffens. “Mn.”

“I’ll be there for you.”

He raises his eyebrow in that familiar way. It makes my chest ache. I almost didn’t get to see him do that ever again.

“I mean it,” I say. “I’m not going to blank out this time. I’ll support you. And then we can put all of this behind us once and for all.”

Baz appraises me slowly. I don’t mind. It means I get to look at him back. (He looks so much better. Not grey and feral and full of teeth, like when the Humdrum hurt him. Just exhausted.)

He sighs and pets his fingers along my side. “That would be nice.”

“I love you,” I say.

Baz looks sheepish. I bet he’d be blushing if he weren’t so depleted. “So…I didn’t imagine that conversation?”

“No, you git.”

“What happened, Snow?” Baz cocks his brow at me again. “Did you get your feelings further awakened by another one of my near-death experiences?”

“Shut up.” I knock a love tap against his hip. “Actually, I— I wanted to tell you at the club. I thought about it when I was…when I took that walk.” _Fuck_. “—I shouldn’t’ve left you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Baz says. “They clearly had been planning this for a while. It would have happened the next time I went, whether or not you were with me.”

“Maybe....”

“Stop,” he grunts. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, stop. You’re no good at it.”

“I used to work with them,” I remind him. “I looked up to them.”

“That was before,” Baz insists. “You also used to hate me. Now you know better.”

“Yeah....”

“You know what’s annoyingly consistent, though?” Baz asks. I shake my head. “You and your bloody heroics. Even without any magic. So, stop blaming yourself. You’re good through and through, Simon Snow. It’s frankly a bit disgusting.”

“You’re such a charmer, Pitch.”

“Apparently,” Baz says. “I hear you’re in love with me.”

That makes me smile.

“I wanted to come back to tell you.”

I look down, trying to gather my thoughts. It feels like forever ago that I came to the realization. I think Baz gets it now, but I want to make sure I’m clear about it.

“I thought if I told you,” I say, “you’d stop putting space between us. I’m the one who’s afraid _you’re_ going to leave _me._ Nothing you show me—your softness, your sadness, fangs, whatever—nothing’s going to scare me away. Nothing’s scared me away so far, yeah?”

I take a deep breath and lift my head, looking right into his eyes. They’re round and soft.

“I want all of you, Baz. You’re what’s filling in the empty parts of me. So don’t hold back any more.” I touch my nose to his; he closes his eyes and exhales shakily. “Make me whole.”

BAZ

I run Snow’s little speech through my head again and again, sure to memorize every word and inflection. I’m too fatigued to do much more than that—I’ll have a good cry about it later.

For now, I do what we always do when things get to be too much—I kiss him.

We lie there, eyes closed, legs (and tail) entangled, hands on each other’s cheeks and hair, sharing our breaths as we slide our lips together, soft and slow. It’s immensely peaceful.

“We’re still going to fight,” I murmur.

“I’m counting on it.” I can feel his lips pull in a smile. “It’s what old married couples are known for.”

I huff in contentment against his cheek.

Simon Snow is still going to be the death of me.

Seeing as he’s managed to postpone my demise yet again, it’s only fair that I make the most of it for now.

“I love you, Simon,” I say.

His fingers curl at the base of my neck, clutching me tight. “…yeah?”

“For years.”

Simon shoves his mouth against mine, hard, and then pulls back far enough to stare at me. It’s a glare, really.

“What?”

Snow frowns harder. “I’m just—” His voice cracks. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

If he were anyone else, I would argue. _‘I’m not okay. I’m very, very far from okay.’_

I know that’s not what he means. He means that I’m alive—okay enough to not be okay. It’ll be a long time until either one of us is truly okay.

We’ll help each other through all of it.

“Of course I am,” I tell him. “Thanks to you. You’re a bloody hero, chosen one.”

Simon’s eyes shimmer.

His next words take my breath away—they feel like a spell, powerful, filled with conviction:

“_Yeah. I am._”


End file.
